/ 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE    HOUSE  OF    QUIET 


?K 


I; 
I 


3  ^^^. 


INTRODUCTION 

A  FEW  words  of  explanation  are,  I  think,  needed, 
when  a  book  which  has  been  anonymous  for  several 
years  appears  with  an  author's  name  on  the  title- 
page.  My  reason  for  putting  my  name  to  the 
book  is  in  this  case  the  simple  one,  that  it  seems 
foolish  to  go  on  trying  to  keep  a  secret  which  is 
no  secret  at  all,  and  to  persist  in  holding  the  mouth 
of  the  bag  close,  long  after  the  cat  has  leapt  out  of 
it.  There  may,  perhaps,  be  critics  who  will  believe 
that  I  had  a  bad  motive  for  originally  withholding 
my  name,  just  as  the  King  in  A/ice  in  Wonderland 
triumphantly  announces  that  the  absence  of  the 
Knave's  name  at  the  end  of  the  anonymous  copy 
of  verses  proves  his  guilt.  And  there  will  perhaps 
be  other  critics,  or  more  probably  the  same,  who 
will  think  that  the  publication  of  my  name  now  is  a 
dodge  or  a  device  to  achieve  some  end  or  other. 
Indeed,  an  amiable  journalist  said  as  much  to  me 
the  other  day,  and  hinted  that  to  issue  anonymous 


.4!  o*^  fl  Ot  •  r> 


vi  INTRODUCTION 

books,  and  then  to  announce  one's  name,  was  an 
ingenious  way  of  increasing  one's  circulation. 

I  indicated  to  him  that,  from  the  author's  point  of 
view,  such  could  not  possibly  be  the  motive.  If 
one  publishes  a  book  with  one's  name  attached, 
there  are  a  certain  number  of  people  who  are  likely 
to  buy  it  out  of  motives  ranging  from  interest  to 
compassion.  But  if  one  publishes  a  book  anony- 
mously, there  is  always  a  risk  that  it  may  fall 
absolutely  flat ;  and  if  so,  there  is  not  much  to 
be  gained  by  announcing  from  the  housetop  a 
fact  which  no  one  desires  to  know,  and  claiming 
the  authorship  of  a  book  in  which  no  one  is 
interested. 

My  own  motives  were  of  a  far  simpler  kind. 
The  book  was  an  attempt  to  construct  a  picture 
of  a  life  that  should  succeed  in  being,  or  in  appear- 
ing to  be,  useful  and  happy  under  heavy  and 
hampering  restrictions.  If  I  had  possessed  any 
dramatic  or  narrative  capacity,  I  would  have  made 
a  novel  out  of  it ;  but  I  have  no  gift  for  combining 
or  interlacing  character,  or  for  painting  a  varied 
scene  on  a  large  canvas.  1  can  sketch  in  a  back- 
ground, and  even  design  a  few  typical  characters  ; 
and  thus  the  only  plan  open  to  me  was  to  put  my 
hero  in  suitable  surroundings,  and  to  draw  a  few 


INTRODUCTION  vii 

personalities,  which  I  may  add  were  in  this  case 
entirely  imaginary,  to  provide  a  contrast.  More- 
over, I  felt  that  if  one  gave  the  book  an  air  of 
reality,  there  were  many  readers  who  would  forgive 
a  certain  dulness  and  heaviness  of  movement  and 
reflection,  which  could  not  be  so  easily  pardoned  in 
a  work  of  fiction. 

There  may  be  people  who  will  think  it  disin- 
genuous to  give  to  what  is  in  a  sense  a  fiction  an 
air  of  veracity.  But  here  again  I  was  in  a  difficulty. 
My  experience  of  the  world  and  life  has  of  necessity, 
owing  to  circumstances,  been  a  limited  one.  If  I 
had  the  inventive  or  creative  faculty,  it  would  be 
different ;  but  I  am  forced  by  the  limitations  of 
experience  and  imaginativeness  to  draw  a  good 
deal  on  my  own  slender  stock — and  thus  the  sub- 
jective part  of  the  book  may  well  wear  an  air  of 
veracity,  for  it  is  mostly  true,  while  on  the  other 
hand  the  intimate  nature  of  it  gives  every  excuse 
for  my  attempting  to  take  refuge  in  anonymity.  I 
have  no  sort  of  wish  to  force  my  impressions  or 
experiences  on  the  world  because  they  are  mine  ; 
but  I  have  as  much  right  as  any  other  artist  to 
paint  pictures  of  the  things  that  have  seemed  to  me 
beautiful  or  strange  or  impressive  ;  and  if  I  choose 
to  hang  them  up  in  a  public  place,  thinking  that 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

they   may   possibly  interest  others,   it  is   not  dis- 
honest not  to  append  a  name  to  them. 

But  other  people  find  one  out ;  they  see  one  at 
work,  they  catch  one  creeping  out  to  hang  a  picture, 
or  hear  the  tapping  of  one's  hammer  in  the  dawn — 
and  when  the  authorship  is  discovered,  it  seems  to 
me  merely  silly  not  to  own  it,  though  I  would 
honestly  far  sooner  not  have  been  identified.  After 
all,  it  is  a  very  unimportant  matter,  and  I  do  not 
wish  to  seem  to  think  it  important ;  and  that  is 
almost  the  only  thing  I  blame  critics  for — that  they 
will  persist  in  considering  any  communication  made 
through  the  medium  of  print  as  a  solemn  and 
deliberate  manifesto  of  one's  deepest  thoughts 
and  hopes  and  principles.  Often,  of  course,  these 
come  in,  falling  on  the  paper  like  big  thunder-drops 
in, the  dust  of  the  road — but  generally  it  is  all  a 
question  of  a  mood.  One  has  a  pleasant  fancy,  a 
romantic  view,  a  happy  companionship,  an  in- 
vigorating journey,  a  radiant  vision — one  of  the 
thousand  pretty  accidents  and  incidents  of  life  ;  and 
one  makes  a  note  of  it  in  words,  as  an  artist  makes 
a  sketch  in  a  sketch-book.  Well,  one  has  a  right 
to  show  one's  sketch-book.  Mine  does  not  pretend 
to  be  high  art,  or  sublime  literature  ;  but  just  as  it 
is  a  pleasure  to  mc  to  see  other  people's   sketch- 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

books,  and  to  guess  at  their  personalities  and 
qualities,  even  if  the  sketches  are  not  what  is 
called  "very  convincing,"  so  I  think  it  may- 
amuse  other  people  to  see  my  own.  But  it  is 
not  a  sacred,  or  a  solemn,  or  an  ineffable  business 
at  all.  It  is  not  done  pompously  or  seriously,  but 
as  one  may  sit  in  a  comfortable  room  by  a  warm 
fireside  and  tell  a  story  to  a  friend.  I  have  none 
of  the  orator's  or  the  leader's  art,  to  sway  large 
masses  of  people  ;  but  it  would  be  churlish  and 
affected  to  pretend  that  I  have  not  made  a  good 
many  quiet  friends,  whom  unseen  I  love,  by  this 
little  book ;  and  so,  as  they  have  liked  the 
book,  they  shall  also  have  the  reason  why  I 
withheld  my  name,  and  why  I  put  it  now  to  the 
book.  And  they  will  know  that  this  statement 
is  not  made  in  a  majestic  and  dignified  way,  as 
from  a  pulpit  or  a  platform,  nor  is  it  a  case  of 
Annuncio  vobis  magnum  gaudizim,  as  the  voice  says 
from  the  pilastered  balcony  of  St.  Peter's.  It  is 
merely  a  personal  word  of  explanation,  about  a 
very  small  matter,  written  in  an  arm-chair  in  a  cool 
September  morning,  while  the  red  farm-carts,  laden 
with  bundles  of  beans,  go  creaking  past  my  rustic 
windows,  and  the  sun  shines  pale  on  the  great 
striped  fen-tlat,  with  its  stubbles  and  fallows — which 


*  INTRODUCTION 

seems  glad,  I  think,  that  the  summer  heat  and  the 
bearing-time  are  over,  and  that  it  may  rest  awhile 
in  coolness  and  silence,  under  moonlit  autumn 
mists  and  star-pierced  frosty  skies,  till  the  Spring, 
with  her  restless  life  and  her  countless  voices, 
returns  again  to  gladden  the  earth. 

A.  C.  B. 


PREFATORY   NOTE  TO   ORIGINAL 

EDITION 

THE  writer  of  the  following  pages  was  a  distant 
cousin  of  my  own^  and  to  a  certain  extent  a  friend. 
That  is  to  say.,  I  had  stayed  several  times  with 
him,  and  he  had  more  than  once  visited  me  at 
my  own  home.  I  knew  that  he  was  obliged.,  for 
reasons  of  health.,  to  live  a  very  quiet  and  retired 
life ;  but  he  was  not  a  man  who  appeared  to  be 
an  invalid.  He  was  keenly  interested  in  books, 
in  art,  and  above  all  in  people,  though  he  had 
but  few  intimate  friends.  He  died  in  the  autumn 
of  1900,  and  his  mother,  who  was  his  only  near 
relation,  died  in  the  following  year ;  it  fell  to  me 
to  administer  his  estate,  and  among  his  papers  I 
found  this  book,  prepared  in  all  essential  respects 
for  publication,  though  it  is  clear  that  it  would 
not  have   seen    the   light   in    his  lifetime.      I  sub- 


xU  PREFATORY    NOTE 

mitted  it  to  a  friend  of  wide  literary  experience ; 
his  opinion  was  that  the  book  had  considerable 
interest^    and   illustrated    a    definite    and  peculiar 

point  of  view,  besides  presenting  a  certain  attrac- 
tion   of  style.      I  accordingly  made    arrangements 

for  its  publication  ;  adding  a  few  passages  from 
the  diary  of  the  last  days,  which  was  composed 
subsequently  to  the  date  at  which  the  book  was 
arranged. 

I  need  hardly  say  that  the  names  are  throughout 

fictitious ;  and  I  will  venture  to  express  a  hope  that 
identification  will  not  be  attempted,  because  the  book 
is  one  which  depends  for  its  value,  not  on  the 
material  circumstances  of  the  writer,  but  upon  the 
views  of  life  which  he  formed. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    (^UIET 

INTRODUCTORY 

Christmas  Eve,  1 898. 
I  HAVE  been  a  good  deal  indoors  lately,  and  I  have 
been  amusing  myself  by  looking  through  old  papers 
and  diaries  of  my  own.  It  seems  to  me  that, 
though  the  record  is  a  very  uneventful  one,  there  is 
yet  a  certain  unity  throughout — I  can  hardly  call  it 
a  conscious,  definite  aim,  or  dignify  it  by  the  name 
of  a  philosophy.  But  I  have  lived  latterly  with  a 
purpose,  and  on  a  plan  that  has  gradually  shaped 
itself  and  become  more  coherent. 

It  was  formerly  my  ambition  to  write  a  book, 
and  it  has  gone  the  way  of  most  ambitions.  I 
suppose  I  have  not  the  literary  temperament ;  I 
have  not  got  the  instinct  for  form  on  a  large 
scale.  In  the  books  which  I  have  attempted  to 
write,  I  have  generally  lost  myself  among  details 
and  abandoned  the  task  in  despair.      I  have  never 


2  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

been  capable  of  the  fundamental  brainwork ;  the 
fundamental  conception  which  Rossetti  said  made 
all  the  difference  between  a  good  piece  of  art  and 
a  bad  one.  When  I  was  young,  my  idea  of  writ- 
ing was  to  pile  fine  phrases  together,  and  to  think 
that  any  topic  which  occurred  to  my  mind  was 
pertinent  to  the  matter  in  hand.  Now  that  I  am 
older,  I  have  learnt  that  form  and  conception  are 
not  everything,  but  nearly  everything,  and  that  a 
definite  idea  austerely  presented  is  better  than  a 
heap  of  literary  ornament. 

And  now  it  seems  to  me  that  I  have  after  all, 
without  intending  it,  written  a  book, — the  one 
book,  that,  it  is  said,  every  man  has  in  his  power 
to  write.  I  feel  like  the  King  of  France  who 
said  that  he  had  **  discovered  "  a  gallery  in  one 
of  his  palaces  by  the  simple  process  of  pulling 
down  partition  walls.  I  have  discarded  a  large 
amount  of  writing,  but  I  have  selected  certain 
episodes,  made  extracts  from  my  diaries,  and  added 
a  few  passages  ;  and  the  result  is  the  story  of  my 
life,  told  perhaps  in  a  desultory  way,  but  with  a 
certain  coherence. 

Whether  or  no  the  book  will  ever  see  the  light 
I   cannot  tell ;  probably  not.      I   do  not  suppose  I 


INTRODUCTORY  3 

shall  have  the  courage  to  publish  it  myself,  and  I 
do  not  know  any  one  who  is  likely  to  take  the 
trouble  of  editing  it  when  I  am  gone.  But  there  it 
is — the  story  of  a  simple  life.  Perhaps  it  will  go 
the  way  of  waste  paper,  kindle  fires,  flit  in  sodden 
dreariness  about  ashpits,  till  it  is  trodden  in  the 
mire.  Perhaps  it  may  repose  in  some  dusty  book- 
shelf, and  arouse  the  faint  and  tender  curiosity  of 
some  far-off  inheritor  of  my  worldly  goods,  like  the 
old  diaries  of  my  forefathers  which  stand  on  my 
own  bookshelf.  But  if  it  came  to  be  published 
I  think  that  there  are  some  to  whom  it  would 
appeal,  as  the  thin-drawn  tremor  of  the  violin  stirs 
the  note  in  vase  or  glass  that  have  stood  voiceless 
and  inanimate.  I  have  borne  griefs,  humiliations, 
dark  overshadowings  of  the  spirit  ;  there  are 
moments  when  I  have  peered,  as  it  were,  into  the 
dim-lit  windows  of  hell ;  but  I  have  had,  too,  my 
fragrant  hours,  tranquil  joys,  imperishable  ecstasies. 
And  as  a  pilgrim  may  tell  his  tale  of  travel  to 
homekeeping  folks,  so  I  may  allow  myself  the 
license  to  speak,  and  tell  what  of  good  and  evil  the 
world  has  brought  me,  and  of  my  faint  strivings 
after  that  interior  peace,  which  can  be  found, 
possessed,  and  enjoyed. 


1 

Dec.  7,  1897. 
I  SIT  this  evening,  towards  the  end  of  the  year,  in 
a  deep  arm-chair  in  a  large,  low  panelled  room  that 
serves  me  as  bedroom  and  study  together  :  the 
windows  are  hung  with  faded  tapestry  curtains ; 
there  is  a  great  open  tiled  fireplace  before  me,  with 
logs  red-crumbling,  bedded  in  grey  ash,  every 
now  and  then  winking  out  flame  and  lighting 
up  the  lean  iron  dogs  that  support  the  fuel ; 
odd  Dutch  tiles  pave  and  wall  the  cavernous 
hearth — this  one  a  quaint  galleon  in  full  sail  on  a 
viscous,  crested  sea;  that,  a  stout,  sleek  bird  stand- 
ing in  complacent  tranquillity  ;  at  the  back  of  the 
hearth,  with  the  swift  shadows  flickering  over  it,  is 
a  large  iron  panel  showing  a  king  in  a  war  chariot, 
with  a  flying  cloak,  issuing  from  an  arched  portal, 
upon  a  bridge  which  spans  a  furious  stream,  and 
shaking  out  the  reins  of  two  stamping  steeds  ;  on 
the  high  chimney-board  is  a  row  of  Delft  plates. 
The  room  is  furnished  with    no   precision  or  pro- 


MY    ROOM  $ 

priety,  the  furniture  having  drifted  in  fortuitously 
as  it  was  needed  :  here  is  a  tapestried  couch  ;  there 
an  oak  bookcase   crammed  with   a  strange  assort- 

o 

ment  of  books  ;  here  a  tall  press  ;  a  picture  or  two 
— a  bishop  embedded  in  lawn  with  a  cauliflower 
wig  ;  a  crayon  sketch  of  a  scholarly  head.  There 
is  no  plan  of  decoration — all  fantastic  miscellany. 
At  the  far  end,  under  an  arch  of  oak,  stands  a  bed, 
screened  from  the  room  by  a  dark  leather  screen. 
Outside  all  is  unutterably  still,  not  with  the  stillness 
that  sometimes  falls  on  a  sleeping  town,  where  the 
hush  seems  invaded  by  imperceptible  cries,  but  with 
the  deep  tranquillity  of  the  country-side  nestling 
down  into  itself  The  trees  are  silent.  Listeninof 
intently,  I  can  hear  the  trickle  of  the  mill-leat,  and 
the  murmur  of  the  hazel-hidden  stream  ;  but  that 
slumbrous  sound  ministers,  as  it  were,  the  dreamful 
quality,  like  the  breathing  of  the  sleeper — enough, 
and  not  more  than  enough,  to  give  the  sense  of 
sleeping  life,  as  opposed  to  the  aching,  icy  stillness 
of  death. 


I  MAY  speak  shortly  of  my  parentage  and  circum- 
stances. I  was  the  only  son  of  my  father,  a  man 
who  held  a  high  administrative  position  under 
Government.  He  owed  his  advancement  not  to 
family  connections,  for  our  family  though  ancient 
was  obscure.  No  doubt  it  may  be  urged  that  all 
families  are  equally  ancient,  but  what  I  mean  is  that 
our  family  had  for  many  generations  preserved  a 
sedulous  tradition  of  gentle  blood  through  poverty 
and  simple  service.  My  ancestors  had  been  mostly 
clergymen,  doctors,  lawyers — at  no  time  had  we 
risen  to  the  dignity  of  a  landed  position  or 
accumulated  wealth  :  but  we  had  portraits,  minia- 
tures, plate — in  no  profusion,  but  enough  to  be  able 
to  feel  that  for  a  century  or  two  we  had  enjoyed  a 
liberal  education,  and  had  had  opportunities  for 
refinement  if  not  leisure,  and  aptitude  for  cultivating 
the  arts  of  life ;  it  had  not  been  a  mere  sordid 
struggle,  an  inability  to  escape  from  the  coarsening 


EARLY    DAYS  7 

pressure  of  gross  anxieties,  but  something  gracious, 
self-contained,  benevolent,  active. 

My  father  changed  this  ;  his  profession  brought 
him  into  contact  with  men  of  rank  and  influence  ; 
he  was  fitted  by  nature  to  play  a  high  social  part ; 
he  had  an  irresistible  geniality,  and  something  of  a 
courtly  air.  He  married  late,  the  daughter  of  an 
impoverished  offshoot  of  a  great  English  family,  and 
I  was  their  only  child. 

The  London  life  is  dim  to  me ;  I  faintly 
recollect  beingf  brouorht  into  the  room  in  a  velvet 
suit  to  make  my  bow  to  some  assembled  circle  of 
guests.  I  remember  hearing  from  the  nursery  the 
din  and  hubbub  of  a  dinner-party  rising,  in  faint 
gusts,  as  the  door  was  opened  and  shut — even  of 
brilliant  cascades  of  music  sparkling  through  the 
house  when  I  awoke  after  a  first  sleep,  in  what 
seemed  to  me  some  dead  hour  of  the  night.  But 
my  father  had  no  wish  to  make  me  into  a  precocious 
monkey,  playing  self-conscious  tricks  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  visitors,  and  I  lived  for  the  most  part  in 
the  company  of  my  mother — herself  almost  a  child — 
and  my  faithful  nurse,  a  small,  simple-minded  York- 
shire woman,  who  had  been  my  mother's  nurse 
before, 


8  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

When  I  was  about  six  years  old  my  father  died 
suddenly,  and  the  first  great  shock  of  my  life  was 
the  sight  of  the  handsome  waxen  face,  with  the 
blurred  and  flinty  look  of  the  dulled  eyes,  the  leaden 
pallor  of  the  thin  hands  crossed  on  his  breast ;  to 
this  day  I  can  see  the  blue  shadows  of  the  ruffled 
shroud  about  his  neck  and  wrists. 

Our  movements  were  simple  enough.  Only  that 
summer,  owing  to  an  accession  of  wealth,  my  father 
and  mother  had  determined  on  some  country  home 
to  which  they  might  retire  in  his  months  of  freedom. 
My  mother  had  never  cared  for  London ;  together 
they  had  found  in  the  heart  of  the  country  a  house 
that  attracted  both  of  them,  and  a  long  lease  had 
been  taken  within  a  week  or  two  of  my  father's 
death.  Our  furniture  was  at  once  transferred  thither, 
and  from  that  hour  it  has  been  my  home. 


The  region  in  which  I  live  is  a  land  of  ridge  and 
vale,  as  though  it  had  been  ploughed  with  a  gigantic 
plough.  The  high-roads  lie  as  a  rule  along  the 
backs  of  the  uplands,  and  the  villages  stand  on  the 
windy  heights.  The  lines  of  railway  which  run 
along  the  valley  tend  to  create  a  new  species  of 
valley  village,  but  the  old  hamlets,  with  their  grey- 
stone  high-backed  churches,  with  slender  shingled 
spires,  stand  aloft,  the  pure  air  racing  over  them. 
The  ancient  manors  and  granges  are  as  a  rule 
built  in  the  more  sheltered  and  sequestered  val- 
leys, approached  from  the  high-road  by  winding 
wood-lanes  of  exquisite  beauty.  The  soil  is  sandy, 
and  a  soft  stone  is  quarried  in  many  places  by  the 
road-side,  leaving  quaint  miniature  cliffs  and  bluffs 
of  weathered  yellow,  sometimes  so  evenly  strati- 
fied as  to  look  like  a  rock-temple  or  a  buried 
ruin  with  mouldering  buttresses  ;  about  these  pits 
grow  little  knots  of  hazels  and  ash-suckers,  and  the 
whole  is  hung  in  summer  with  luxuriant  creepers 


lO  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

and  climbing  plants,  out  of  which  the  crumbling 
rock-surfaces  emerge.  The  roads  go  down  very 
steeply  to  the  valleys,  which  are  thick-set  with  copse 
and  woodland,  and  at  the  bottom  runs  a  full-fed 
stream,  with  cascades  and  pebbly  shingles,  running 
dark  under  scarps  of  sandstone,  or  hidden  deep 
under  thick  coverts  of  hazel,  the  water  in  the  light 
a  pure  grey-green.  Some  chalk  is  mingled  with 
these  ridges,  so  that  in  rainy  weather  the  hoof-prints 
in  the  roads  ooze  as  with  milk.  The  view  from 
these  uplands  is  of  exquisite  beauty,  ridge  after 
ridge  rolling  its  soft  outlines,  thinly  wooded.  Far 
away  are  glimpses  of  high  heathery  tracts  black  with 
pines,  or  a  solitary  clump  upon  some  naked  down. 
But  the  views  in  the  valleys  are  even  more  beautiful. 
The  steep  wood  rises  from  the  stream,  or  the  grave 
lines  of  some  tilted  fallow ;  in  summer  the  water- 
plants  grow  with  rich  luxuriance  by  the  rivulet, 
tall  willow-herb  and  velvety  loosestrife,  tufted 
meadowsweet,  and  luxuriant  comfrey.  The  home- 
steads are  of  singular  stateliness,  with  their  great 
brick  chimney-stacks,  the  upper  storeys  weather-tiled 
and  the  roof  of  flat  tiles  of  sandstone  ;  the  whole 
mellowed  by  orange  and  grey  lichens  till  the  houses 
seem  to  have  sprung  as  it  were  from  the  very  soil. 


My  own  home  —  bearing  the  tranquil  name  of 
Golden  End — is  an  ancient  manor ;  out  of  a  sandy 
lane  turns  an  avenue  of  great  Scotch  firs,  passing 
the  house  and  inclining  gradually  in  its  direction. 
The  house  is  a  strange  medley  ;  one  part  of  it  is 
an  Elizabethan  building,  mullioned,  of  grey  stone ; 
one  wing  is  weather-tiled  and  of  simple  outline- 
The  front,  added  at  some  period  of  prosperity,  is 
Georgian,  thickly  set  with  large  windows ;  over  all 
is  a  little  tiled  cupola  where  an  alarm  bell  hangs. 
There  is  a  small  square  garden  in  front  surrounded 
by  low  walls  ;  above  the  house  lies  what  was  once 
a  bowling-green,  with  a  terraced  walk  surrounding 
it.  The  kitchen  garden  comes  close  up  to  the 
windows,  and  is  protected  on  the  one  side  by  a 
gigantic  yew  hedge,  like  a  green  bastion,  on  the 
other  by  an  ancient  stone  wall,  with  a  tiled  roof; 
below  the  house  lie  quaint  farm-buildings,  cartsheds, 
barns,   granaries,    and    stables ;    beyond    them    are 


12  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

pools,  fringed  with  self-sown  ashes,  and  an  orchard, 
in  the  middle  of  which  stands  a  brick  dovecot  with 
sandstone  tiles.  The  meadows  fall  from  the  house 
to  the  stream ;  but  the  greater  part  of  the  few 
acres  which  we  hold  is  simple  woodland,  where  the 
copse  grows  thick  and  dark,  with  here  and  there  a 
stately  forest  tree.  The  house  seen,  as  I  love  best 
to  see  it,  from  the  avenue  on  a  winter  evening,  rises 
a  dark  irregular  pile,  crowned  with  the  cupola  and 
the  massive  chimneys  against  a  green  and  liquid 
sky,  in  which  trembles  a  single  star ;  the  pine- 
trees  are  blacker  still ;  and  below  lies  the  dim 
mysterious  woodland,  with  the  mist  rising  over  the 
stream,  and,  beyond  that,  soft  upland  after  upland, 
like  a  land  of  dreams,  out  to  the  horizon's  verge. 

Within  all  is  dark  and  low ;  there  is  a  central 
panelled  hall  with  round  oak  arches  on  either  hand 
leading  through  little  anterooms  to  a  parlour  and 
dining-room.  There  are  wide,  meaningless  corri- 
dors with  steps  up  and  down  that  connect  the 
wings  with  the  central  building ;  the  staircases  are 
of  the  most  solid  oak.  All  the  rooms  are  panelled 
except  the  attics,  which  show  the  beams  crossing  in 
the  ancient  plasterwork.  At  the  top  of  the  house 
is  a  long  room  which  runs  from  end  to  end,  with  a 


GOLDEN    END  13 

great  open  fireplace.  The  kitchen  is  a  huge,  paved 
chamber  with  an  oak  pillar  in  the  centre.  A  certain 
amount  of  massive  oak  furniture,  sideboards,  chests, 
and  presses,  with  initials  or  dates,  belongs  to  the 
place  ;  but  my  father  was  a  great  collector  of  books, 
china,  and  pictures,  which,  with  the  furniture  of  a 
large  London  house,  were  put  hurriedly  in,  with 
little  attempt  at  order ;  and  no  one  has  since 
troubled  to  arrange  them.  One  little  feature  must 
be  mentioned ;  at  the  top  of  the  house  a  crazy 
oak  door  gives  access  to  a  flight  of  stairs  that 
leads  on  to  a  parapet ;  but  below  the  stairs  is  a 
tiny  oratory,  with  an  altar  and  some  seats,  where 
the  household  assemble  every  morning  for  a  few 
prayers,  and  together  sing  an  artless  hymn. 


My  mother,  who  through  the  following  pages 
must  be  understood  to  be  the  presiding  deity  of  the 
scene — o  quam  te  memorem  ? — how  shall  I  describe 
her?  Seen  through  her  son's  eyes  she  has  an 
extraordinary  tranquillity  and  graciousness  of  mien. 
She  moves  slowly  with  an  absolutely  unconscious 
dignity.  She  is  naturally  very  silent,  and  has  a 
fixed  belief  that  she  is  entirely  devoid  of  all  intel- 
lectual power,  which  is  in  one  sense  true,  for  she 
reads  little  and  has  no  taste  for  discussion.  At  the 
same  time  she  is  gifted  with  an  extraordinary 
shrewdness  and  penetration  in  practical  matters, 
and  I  would  trust  her  judgment  without  hesitation. 
She  is  intensely  affectionate,  and  has  the  largest 
heart  I  have  ever  known  ;  but  at  the  same  time  is 
capable  of  taking  almost  whimsical  prejudices 
against  people,  which,  however  I  have  combated 
them  at  the  time,  have  generally  proved  to  be 
justified  by  subsequent  events.     Her  sympathy  and 


MY    MOTHER  15 

her  geniality  make  her  delightful  company,  for  she 
delights   in   listening  to  the  talk  of  clever  people, 
and  has  a  strong  sense  of  humour.     She  likes  being 
read  to,  though   I   do  not  think  she  questions  the 
thought  of  what  is  read.     She  is  deeply  religious, 
though   I  do  not  suppose  she  could  give  a  reason 
for  her  faith,   and  is  consequently  tolerant  of  re- 
ligious   differences    which    she    never   attempts    to 
comprehend.      In  the  village  she  is  simply  adored 
by  men,  women,  and  children  alike,  though  she  is 
not  particularly  given  to  what  is   called   "visiting 
the  poor."     At  the  same  time  if  there  is  trouble  in 
any  house,  no  matter  of  what  kind,  she  goes  there 
straight  by  instinct,  and  has  none  of  the  dread  of 
emotional  scenes  which  make  so  many  of  us  cow- 
ards in  the  presence  of  sorrow  and  suffering.      I  do 
not  think  she  feels  any  duty  about  it,  but  it  is  as 
natural  and  spontaneous  for  her  to  go  as  it  is  for 
most  of  us  to    desire   to    keep   away.     A  shrewd 
woman  of  the  village,  a  labourer's  wife,  whom  my 
mother  had  seen  through  a  dreadful  tragedy  a  year 
or  two  before,  once  said  in  reply  to  a  question  of 
mine,  "  It  isn't  as  if  her  ladyship  said  or  did  more 
than  any  one  else — every  one  was   kind   to  us — 
but  she  used  to  come  in  and  sit  with  me  and  look 


i6  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

at  me,  and  after  a  little  I  used  to  feel  that  it  was 
all  right." 

She  manages  the  household  with  less  expenditure 
of  trouble  than  I  have  ever  seen.  Our  servants 
never  seem  to  leave  us ;  they  are  paid  what  many 
people  would  call  absurdly  high  wages,  but  I  do  not 
think  that  is  the  attraction.  My  mother  does  not 
see  very  much  of  them,  and  finds  fault,  when  rarely 
necessary,  with  a  simple  directness  which  I  have  in 
vain  tried  to  emulate ;  but  her  displeasure  is  so  im- 
personal that  there  seems  to  be  no  sting  in  it.  It 
is  not  that  they  have  failed  in  their  duty  to  her- 
self, but  they  have  been  untrue  to  the  larger  duty 
to  which  she  is  herself  obedient. 

She  never  seems  to  labour  under  any  strong 
sense  of  the  imperative  duty  of  philanthropic 
activity — indeed  it  is  hard  to  say  how  her  days  are 
filled — but  in  her  simplicity,  her  unselfishness,  her 
quiet  acceptance  of  the  conditions  of  life,  her 
tranquillity  and  her  devoted  lovingness,  she  seems 
to  me  the  best  Christian  I  have  ever  seen,  and 
to  come  nearest  to  the  ideals  of  Christ.  But, 
though  a  large  part  of  her  large  income  is  spent  in 
unostentatious  benevolence,  she  would  think  it 
preposterous    if    it    were    suggested    to    her   that 


MY    MOTHER  17 

Christianity  demanded  an  absolute  sacrifice  of 
worldly  possessions.  Yet  she  sets  no  store  on 
comfort  or  the  evidences  of  wealth ;  she  simply 
accepts  them,  and  has  a  strong  instinctive  feeling  of 
stewardship. 

I  cannot  help  thinking  that  such  women  are 
becoming  rarer ;  and  yet  it  is  hard  to  believe  that 
they  can  ever  have  been  other  than  rare. 


B 


6 

1  GRATEFULLY  acknowledge  the  constant  presence 
of  an  element  in  my  life  which  for  want  of  a  better 
name  I  will  call  the  sense  of  beauty.  I  mean 
by  that  the  unaccountable  thrill  of  emotion  by 
which  one  is  sometimes  surprised,  often  quite 
suddenly  and  unexpectedly  ;  this  sense  of  wonder, 
which  darts  upon  the  mind  with  an  almost 
physical  sensation,  seems  to  come  in  two  different 
ways.  With  some,  the  majority  I  believe,  it 
originates  entirely  in  personal  relations  with  other 
human  beings  and  is  known  as  love ;  with  others  it 
arises  over  a  larger  region,  and  is  inspired  by  a 
sudden  perception  of  some  incommunicable  beauty 
in  a  flower,  a  scent,  a  view,  a  picture,  a  poem. 
Those  in  whom  the  latter  sense  predominates 
are,  I  think,  less  apt  to  be  affected  by  human 
relationships,  but  pass  through  the  world  in  a 
certain  solitary  and  wistful  mood,  with  perhaps 
more  wide  and  general  sources  of  happiness   but 

i6 


BEAUTY    AND    MYSTERY  19 

less  liable  to  be  stirred  to  the  depths  of  their  being 
by  a  friendship  or  a  passion.  To  take  typical 
examples  of  such  a  class  I  conceive  that  Wordsworth 
and  William  Morris  were  instances.  Wordsworth 
derived,  I  believe,  his  highest  inspiration  from  the 
solemn  dignities  of  nature,  in  her  most  stupendous 
and  majestic  forms  ;  while  to  Morris  belonged  that 
power,  which  amounted  in  him  to  positive  genius, 
for  seeing  beauty  in  the  most  homely  and  simple 
things. 

I  was  myself  haunted  from  a  very  early  date 
by  the  sense  of  beauty  and  mystery,  though  not 
for  many  years  could  I  give  it  a  name  ;  but  I  have 
found  in  my  case  that  it  originated  as  a  rule  in 
some  minute  effect  of  natural  things.  I  have  seen 
some  of  the  wildest  and  most  astounding  natural 
prospects  in  Europe ;  I  have  climbed  high  rocky 
peaks  and  threaded  mountain  solitudes,  but  some 
overshadowing  of  horror  and  awe  has  robbed  emo- 
tion of  its  most  intimate  joy ;  and  I  have  always 
found  myself  more  thrilled  by  some  tranquil  vig- 
nette— the  moon  rising  through  a  forest  glade,  a 
red  sunset  between  the  boughs  of  pines,  the  crisp- 
ing wave  of  some  broken  eddy,  the  "green-dense 
and  dim-delicious  "  depth  of  a  woodland  pool,  the 


20  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

weathered  gables  of  an  ancient  manor,  an  orchard 
white  with  the  snows  of  spring — than  I  have  ever 
been  by  the  sight  of  the  most  solemn  mountain- 
head  or  the  furious  breakers  of  some  uncontrolled 
tide. 

Two  or  three  of  these  sacred  sights  I  may 
venture  to  describe,  taking  them  at  random  out  of 
the  treasure-house  of  memory  ;  two  belong  to  my 
schooldays.  I  was  a  pupil  at  a  big  suburban  school ; 
the  house  which  we  inhabited  had  once  been  the 
villa  of  a  well-known  statesman,  and  had  large  and 
dignified  grounds,  where,  with  certain  restrictions, 
we  were  allowed  to  ramble.  They  were  bounded 
on  one  side  by  a  high  paling,  inaccessible  to  small 
limbs,  and  a  vague  speculation  as  to  what  was 
behind  the  fence  long  dwelt  with  me.  One  day, 
however,  I  found  that  I  could  loose  a  portion  of 
a  broken  paling,  and  looking  through  I  saw  a  quiet 
place,  the  tail  of  a  neglected  shrubbery  ;  the  spot 
seemed  quite  unvisited ;  the  laurels  grew  thickly 
about,  and  tall  elms  gave  an  austere  gloom  to  the 
little  glade  ;  the  ground  was  pathless,  and  thickly 
overgrown  with  periwinkles,  but  in  the  centre  were 
three  tiny  grave-mounds,  the  graves,  I  have  since 
reflected,  of  dogs,  but  which  I  at  the  time  supposed 


THE    ENCHANTED    LAND  21 

to  be  the  graves  of  children.  I  gazed  with  a  singu- 
lar sense  of  mystery,  and  strange  dream-pictures 
rose  instinctively  in  my  mind,  weaving  themselves 
over  the  solitary  and  romantic  spot.  It  is  strange 
how  often  in  dreams  and  gentle  reveries  I  have 
visited  the  place. 

The  next  is  a  later  vision.  Near  the  public 
school  where  I  was  educated  lay  a  forest  to  which 
we  had  free  admittance.  I  found  that  by  hard 
walking  it  was  just  possible  to  reach  a  wooded  hill 
which  was  a  conspicuous  feature  of  the  distant 
landscape,  but  the  time  at  my  disposal  between 
two  school  engagements  never  sufficed  to  penetrate 
farther.  From  the  top  of  this  hill  it  was  possible 
to  get  a  view  of  a  large  tract  of  forest  ground,  an 
open  grassy  glade,  with  large  trees  of  towering 
greenness  standing  sentinel  on  either  side ;  the 
bracken  grew  luxuriantly  in  places,  and  at  the  end 
of  the  glade  was  a  glint  of  water  in  the  horn  of 
some  forest  pool.  This  place  was  to  me  a  veritable 
"  magic  casement " ;  beyond  lay  the  enchanted 
land  into  which  I  could  not  penetrate,  the  blue  hills 
on  the  horizon  seen  over  the  tree-tops.  I  never 
dreamt  of  them  as  inhabited  by  human  beings  like 
myself,   but  as  some  airy  region,  with   leagues  of 


22  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

dreaming  woods  and  silent  forest  spaces.  At  times 
a  deer  would  slowly  cross  the  open  vale,  and  stand 
to  sniff  the  breeze  ;  the  very  cooing  of  the  doves 
in  their  leafy  fastnesses  had  a  richer  and  drowsier 
sound. 

But  the  home  of  incommunicable  dreams,  be- 
yond all  others,  is  to  me  a  certain  mill — Grately 
Mill — that  is  not  many  miles  from  my  present 
home.  My  mother  had  an  old  aunt  who  lived  in 
a  pleasant  house  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  we 
used  to  go  there  when  I  was  a  child  to  spend  a  few 
weeks  of  the  early  summer. 

A  little  vague  lane  led  to  It :  a  lane  that  came 
from  nowhere  in  particular,  and  took  you  nowhere  ; 
meandering  humbly  among  the  pastures  wherever 
it  was  convenient  to  them  to  permit  it,  like  a  faint- 
hearted Christian.  Hard  by  was  a  tall,  high- 
shouldered,  gabled  farm  of  red  brick,  with  a  bell 
perched  on  the  roof  in  a  white  pavilion  of  its  own. 
Down  the  lane  on  hot  summer  days  we  used  to 
walk — my  mother  and  I  :  my  mother  whom  I 
revered  as  a  person  of  unapproachable  age  and  dim 
experience,  though  she  had  been  in  the  schoolroom 
herself  but  a  year  or  two  before  my  birth ;  I  trotting 
by    her  side    with    a   little    fishing-rod    in    a  grey 


GRATELY    MILL  23 

Holland  case,  to  fish  for  perch  in  the  old  pond  at 
the  Hall. 

The  lane  grew  sandier  and  damper  :  a  rivulet 
clucked  in  the  ditch,  half-hidden  in  ragged-robin 
with  its  tattered  finery,  and  bright  varnished  ranun- 
culus ;  the  rivulet  was  a  mysterious  place  enough 
ever  since  the  day  when  we  found  it  full  of  waving 
clusters  of  strange  dark  creatures,  more  eel  than 
fish,  which  had  all  appeared  with  miraculous 
unanimity  in  a  single  night — lamperns,  the  village 
naturalist  called  them,  and  told  us  that  in  ancient 
days  they  were  a  delicacy  ;  while  I,  in  my  childish 
mind,  at  once  knew  that  it  was  this  which  had  gone 
to  the  composition  of  that  inexplicable  dish,  a 
surfeit  of  lampreys,  as  the  history  had  it,  of  which 
some  greedy  monarch  died. 

Once,  too,  a  bright-coloured  eel  had  been  seen 
at  a  certain  point,  who  had  only  just  eluded  the 
grasp  of  hot  little  fingers.  How  many  times  I 
looked  for  master  eel,  expecting  to  meet  him  at 
the  same  place,  and  was  careful  to  carry  a  delight- 
ful tin  box  in  my  pocket,  in  which  he  might 
travel  home  in  my  pocket,  and  live  an  honoured 
life  in  a  basin  in  the  night  nursery.  Poor  eel !  I 
am  glad  now  that   he   escaped,  but  then  he  was 


24  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

only  a   great  opportunity  missed  —  an   irreparable 
regret. 

Then  the  poor  lane,  which  had  been  getting 
more  like  a  watercourse  every  moment,  no  longer 
made  any  pretence,  and  disappeared  into  a  shallow 
sheet  of  clear  water — the  mill  at  last !  The  scene, 
as  I  remember  it,  had  a  magical  charm.  On  the 
left,  by  the  side  of  the  lane,  rose  a  crazy  footpath  of 
boards  and  posts  with  a  wooden  handrail,  and  a 
sluice  or  two  below.  Beyond,  the  deep  mill-pool 
slept,  dark  and  still,  all  fringed  with  trees.  On  the 
right  the  stream  flowed  off  among  the  meadows, 
disappearing  into  an  arch  of  greenery  ;  in  summer 
the  banks  and  islets  were  all  overgrown  with  tall 
rich  plants,  comfrey,  figwort,  water-dock.  The 
graceful  willow-herb  hung  its  pink  horns  ;  the 
loosestrife  rose  in  sturdier  velvet  spires.  On  the 
bank  stood  the  shuttered,  humming  mill,  the  water- 
wheel  splashing  and  thundering,  like  a  prisoned 
giant,  in  a  penthouse  of  its  own.  It  was  a  fearful 
joy  to  look  in  and  see  it  rise  dripping,  huge  and 
black,  with  the  fresh  smell  of  the  river  water  all 
about  it.  All  the  mill  was  powdered  with  the  dust 
of  grain  ;  the  air  inside  was  full  of  floating  specks ; 
the  hoppers  rattled,  and  the  gear  grumbled  in  the 


GRATELY    CHURCH  2$ 

roof,  while  the  flour  streamed  merrily  into  the  open 
sack.  The  miller,  a  grave  preoccupied  man,  all 
dusted  over,  like  a  plum,  with  a  thin  bloom  of  flour, 
gave  us  a  grave  nod  of  greeting,  which  seemed  to 
make  us  free  of  the  place.  I  dare  say  he  was  a  shy 
mild  man,  with  but  little  of  the  small  change  of  the 
mind  at  his  disposal  ;  but  he  seemed  to  me  then  an 
austere  and  statesmanlike  person,  full  to  the  brim  of 
grave  affairs.  Beyond  the  mill,  a  lane  of  a  more 
determined  character  led  through  arches  of  elms  to 
the  common.  And  now,  on  secular  days,  the  inte- 
rests of  the  chase  took  precedence  of  all  else  ;  but 
there  were  Sundays  in  the  summer  when  we  walked 
to  attend  Grately  Church.  It  seems  to  me  at  this 
lapse  of  time  to  have  been  almost  impossibly 
antique.  Ancient  yews  stood  by  it,  and  it  had  a 
white  boarded  spire  with  a  cracked  bell.  Inside, 
the  single  aisleless  nave,  with  ancient  oak  pews, 
was  much  encumbered  in  one  place  by  a  huge  hand- 
organ,  with  a  forest  of  gold  pipes,  turned  by  a 
wizened  man,  who  opened  a  little  door  in  the  side 
and  inserted  his  hand  at  intervals  to  set  the  tune. 
The  clergyman,  an  aged  gentleman,  wore  what 
was,  I  suppose,  a  dark  wig,  though  at  the  time  I 
imagined  it  to  be  merely  an  agreeable  variety  on 


26  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

ordinary  hair  ;  another  pleasant  habit  he  had  of 
slightly  smacking  his  lips,  at  every  little  pause,  as 
he  read,  which  gave  an  air  of  indescribable  gusto 
to  the  service  : — "  Moab — tut —  is  my  washpot — 
tut —  ;  over  Edom — tut —  will  I  cast  out  my  shoe — 
tut —  ;    upon  Philistia — tut —  will  I  triumph." 

In  the  vestry  of  the  church  reposed  a  curious 
relic — a  pyx,  I  believe,  is  the  correct  name.  It  was 
a  gilded  metal  chalice  with  a  top,  into  which,  if  my 
memory  serves  me.  were  screwed  little  soldiers  to 
guard  the  sacred  body  ;  these  were  loose,  and  how 
I  coveted  them!  In  the  case  were  certain  spikes 
and  branches  of  crystal,  the  broken  remains,  I 
believe,  of  a  spreading  crystal  tree  which  once 
adorned  the  top.  How  far  my  memory  serves  me 
I  know  not,  but  I  am  sure  that  the  relic,  which  may 
still  survive,  is  a  most  interesting  thing ;  and  I  can 
recollect  that  when  a  high  dignitary  of  the  Church 
stayed  with  us,  it  was  kindly  brought  over  by  the 
clergyman  for  his  inspection,  and  his  surprise  was 
very  great. 

The  Hall  lay  back  from  the  common,  sheltered 
by  great  trees.  The  house  itself,  a  low  white 
building,  was  on  those  summer  days  cool  and 
fragrant.     The  feature  of  the  place  was  the  great 


THEHALL  vj 

fish-ponds — one  lay  outside  the  shrubbery ;  but 
another,  formerly  I  believe  a  monastic  stew-pond, 
was  a  long  rectangle  just  outside  the  windows  of 
the  drawing-room,  and  only  separated  from  it  by 
a  gravel  walk :  along  part  of  it  ran  an  ancient 
red-brick  wall.  This  was  our  favourite  fishing- 
place  ;  but  above  it,  brooded  over  by  huge  chest- 
nuts, lay  a  deeper  and  stiller  pond,  half  covered 
with  water-lilies — too  sacred  and  awful  a  place  to 
be  fished  in  or  even  visited  alone. 

Upon  the  fishing  hours  I  do  not  love  to  dwell ; 
I  would  only  say  that  of  such  cruelties  as  attended 
it  I  was  entirely  innocent.  I  am  sure  that  I  never 
thought  cA  a  perch  as  other  than  a  delightful 
mechanical  thing,  who  had  no  grave  objection  to 
being  hauled  up  gasping,  with  his  black  stripes 
gleaming,  and  prickling  his  red  f.ns,  to  be  pre- 
sently despatched,  and  carried  home  stiff  and  cold 
in  a  little  basket. 

The  tea  under  the  tall  trees  of  the  lawn  ;  the 
admiring  inspection  of  our  prey  ;  the  stuffed  dog 
in  the  hall  with  his  foot  upon  a  cricket-ball — all 
these  are  part  of  the  dream-pictures  ;  and  the  whole 
is  invested  for  me  with  the  purpureal  gleams  of 
childhood. 


28  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

The  other  day  I  found  myself  on  a  bicycle 
near  enough  to  Grately  to  make  it  possible  to  go 
there ;  into  the  Hall  grounds  I  did  not  venture, 
but  I  struck  across  the  common  and  went  down  the 
lane  to  the  mill.  I  was  almost  ashamed  of  the 
agitation  I  felt,  but  the  sight  of  the  common,  never 
visited  for  nearly  thirty  years,  induced  a  singular 
physical  distress.  It  was  not  that  everything  had 
grown  smaller,  even  changed  the  places  that  they 
occupy  in  my  mental  picture,  but  a  sort  of  home- 
sickness seemed  to  draw  tight  bands  across  my 
heart.  What  does  it  mean,  this  intense  local  at- 
tachment, for  us  flimsy  creatures,  snapped  at  a 
touch,  and  with  so  brief  a  pilgrimage?  A  strange 
thought !  The  very  intensity  and  depth  of  the 
feeling  seems  to  confer  on  it  a  right  to  perman- 
ence. 

The  lane  came  abruptly  to  an  end  by  the  side 
of  a  commonplace,  straight-banked,  country  brook. 
There  were  no  trees,  no  water-plants ;  the  road 
did  not  dip  to  the  stream,  and  in  front  of  me 
lay  a  yellow  brick  bridge,  with  grim  iron  lattices. 
Alas !  I  had  mistaken  the  turn,  and  must  retrace 
my  steps.  But  stay!  what  was  that  squat  white 
house   by  the  waterside.'*     It   was   indeed   the   old 


THE    CHANGE  29 

mill,  with  its  boarded  projections  swept  away,  its 
barns  gone,  its  garden  walled  with  a  neat  wall. 
The  old  high-timbered  bridge  was  down ;  some 
generous  landlord  had  gone  to  great  expense,  and 
Grately  had  a  good  convenient  road,  a  sensible 
bridge,  and  an  up-to-date  mill.  Probably  there 
was  not  a  single  person  in  the  parish  who  did  not 
confess  to  an  improvement. 

But  who  will  give  me  back  the  tall  trees  and  the 
silent  pool  ?  Who  will  restore  the  ancient  charm, 
the  delicate  mysteries,  the  gracious  dignity  of  the 
place?  Is  beauty  a  mere  trick  of  grouping,  the 
irradiation  of  a  golden  mood,  a  chance  congeries 
of  water  and  high  trees  and  sunlight.'*  If  beauty 
be  industriously  hunted  from  one  place  by  ruthless 
hands,  does  she  spread  her  wings  and  fly?  Is  the 
restless,  ceaseless  effort  of  nature  to  restore  beauty 
to  the  dismal  messes  made  by  man,  simply  broken 
off  and  made  vain  ?  Or  has  she  leisure  to  work 
harder  yet  in  unvisited  places,  patiently  enduring 
the  grasp  of  the  spoiling  hand  ? 

It  was  with  something  like  a  sob  that  I  turned 
away.  But  of  one  thing  no  one  can  rob  me,  and 
that  is  the  picture  of  Grately  Mill,  glorified  indeed 
by  the  patient  worship  of  years,  which  is  locked 


30  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

into  some  portfolio  of  the  mind,  and  can  be  un- 
spread  in  a  moment  before  the  gazing  eye. 

And  for  one  thing  I  can  be  grateful — that  the 
still  spirit  of  sweet  and  secret  places,  that  wayward 
nymph  who  comes  and  goes,  with  the  wind  in  her 
hair  and  the  gleam  of  deep  water  in  her  eyes — she 
to  whom  we  give  many  a  clumsy  name — that  she 
first  beckoned  to  me  and  spoke  words  in  my  ear 
beneath  the  high  elms  of  Grately  Mill.  Many 
times  have  we  met  and  spoken  in  secret  since, 
my  Egeria  and  I ;  many  times  has  she  touched 
my  shoulder,  and  whispered  a  magic  charm.  That 
presence  has  been  often  withdrawn  from  me ;  but 
I  have  but  to  recall  the  bridge,  the  water-plants, 
the  humming  mill,  the  sunlight  on  the  sandy 
shallows,  to  feel  her  hand  in  mine  again. 


As  a  boy  and  a  young  man  I  went  through  the 
ordinary  classical  education — private  school,  public 
school,  and  university.  I  do  not  think  I  troubled 
my  head  at  the  time  about  the  philosophical  theory 
or  motive  of  the  course  ;  but  now,  looking  back 
upon  it  after  an  interval  of  twenty  years,  while 
my  admiration  of  the  theory  of  it  is  enhanced,  as  a 
lofty  and  dignified  scheme  of  mental  education,  I 
find  myself  haunted  by  uneasy  doubts  as  to  its 
practical  efficacy.  While  it  seems  to  me  to  be 
for  a  capable  and  well-equipped  boy  with  decided 
literary  taste,  a  noble  and  refining  influence,  I  begin 
to  fear  that  for  the  large  majority  of  youthful 
English  minds  it  is  narrowing,  unimproving,  and 
conspicuous  for  an  absence  of  intellectual  enjoyment. 
Is  it  not  the  experience  of  most  people  that 
little  boys  are  conscientious,  duty-loving,  interested 
not  so  much  in  the  matter  of  work,  but  in  the 
zealous  performance   of  it ;  and  that  when  adoles- 


32  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

cence  begins,  they  grow  indifferent,  wearied,  even 
rebellious,  until  they  drift  at  last  into  a  kind  of 
cynicism  about  the  whole  thing — a  kind  of  dumb 
certainty,  that  whatever  else  may  be  got  from 
work,  enjoyment  in  no  form  is  the  result  ?  And 
is  not  the  moral  of  this,  that,  the  apprenticeship 
once  over  and  the  foundation  laid,  special  tastes 
should  as  far  as  possible  be  consulted,  and  subjects 
simplified,  so  as  to  give  boys  a  sense  of  mastery  in 
something,  and  interest  at  all  hazards. 

The  champions  of  our  classical  system  defend  it 
on  the  ground  that  the  accurate  training  in  the  subtle- 
ties of  grammar  hardens  and  fortifies  the  intelligence, 
and  that  the  mind  is  introduced  to  the  masterpieces 
of  ancient  literature,  and  thus  encouraged  in  the 
formation  of  correct  taste  and  critical  appreciation. 

An  excellent  theory,  and  I  admit  at  once  its 
value  for  minds  of  high  and  firm  intellectual  calibre. 
But  how  does  it  actually  work  out  for  the  majority  } 
In  the  first  place,  look  at  what  the  study  of  grammar 
amounts  to — it  comes,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  when  one 
remembers  the  grammar  papers  which  were  set  in 
examinations,  to  be  little  more  than  a  knowledge  of 
arbitrary,  odd  and  eccentric  forms  such  as  a  boy 
seldom  if  ever  meets  in  the  course  of  his  reading. 


ELEMENTS  33 

Imagine  teaching  English  on  the  same  theory, 
and  making  boys  learn  that  metals  have  no 
plural,  or  that  certain  fish  use  the  same  form 
in  the  singular  and  in  the  plural  —  things  of 
which  one  acquires  the  knowledge  insensibly, 
and  which  are  absolutely  immaterial.  Moreover, 
the  quantity  of  grammatical  forms  in  Latin  and 
Greek  are  infinitely  increased  by  the  immensely 
larger  number  of  inflexions.  Is  it  useful  that  boys 
should  have  to  commit  to  memory  the  dual  forms 
in  Greek  verbs — forms  of  a  repulsive  character  in 
themselves,  and  seldom  encountered  in  books  ? 
The  result  of  this  method  is  that  the  weaker  mind 
is  warped  and  strained.  Some  few  memories  of  a 
peculiarly  retentive  type  may  acquire  these  useless 
facts  in  a  mechanical  manner ;  but  it  is  hardly  more 
valuable  than  if  they  were  required  to  commit  to 
memory  long  lists  of  nonsense  words.  Yet  in  most 
cases  they  are  doomed  to  be  speedily  and  com- 
pletely forgotten — indeed,  nothing  can  ever  be  really 
learnt  unless  a  logical  connection  can  be  established 
between  the  items. 

Then  after  the  dark  apprenticeship  of  grammar 
comes  the  next  stage — the  appreciation  of  literature  : 
but  I  diffidently  believe  here  that  not  ten  per  cent 


34  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

of  the  boys  who  are  introduced  to  the  classics  have 
ever  the  slightest  idea  that  they  are  in  the  presence 
of  literature  at  all.  They  never  approach  the 
point  which  is  essential  to  a  love  of  literature — 
the  instinctive  perception  of  the  intrinsic  beauty 
of  majestic  and  noble  words,  and  still  less  the 
splendid  associations  which  grow  to  be  inseparably 
connected  with  words,  in  a  language  which  one 
really  knows  and  admires. 

My  own  belief  is  that  both  the  method  of  in- 
struction and  the  spirit  of  that  instruction  are  at 
fault.  Like  the  Presbyterian  Liturgy,  the  system 
depends  far  too  much  on  the  individuality  of 
the  teacher,  and  throws  too  great  a  strain 
upon  his  mood.  A  vigorous,  brilliant,  lively, 
humorous,  rhetorical  man  can  break  through  the 
shackles  of  construing  and  parsing,  and  give  the 
boys  the  feeling  of  having  been  in  contact  with  a 
larger  mind  ;  but  in  the  hands  of  a  dull  and  un- 
inspiring teacher  the  system  is  simply  famishing 
from  its  portentous  aridity.  The  result,  at  all 
events,  is  that  the  majority  of  the  boys  at  our 
schools  never  get  the  idea  that  they  are  in  the 
presence  of  literature  at  all.  They  are  kept  kick- 
ing their  heels  in  the  dark  and  cold  ante-chamber  of 


THE    FORMED    MIND  35 

parsing  and  grammar,  and  never  get  a  glimpse  of 
the  bright  gardens  within. 

What  is,  after  all,  the  aim  of  education  ?  I 
suppose  it  is  twofold  :  firstly,  to  make  of  the  mind 
a  bright,  keen,  and  effective  instrument,  capable 
of  seeing  a  point,  of  grappling  with  a  difficulty, 
of  presenting  facts  or  thoughts  with  clearness  and 
precision.  A  young  man  properly  educated  should 
be  able  to  detect  a  fallacy,  to  correct  by  acquired 
clearsightedness  a  false  logical  position.  He  should 
not  be  at  the  mercy  of  any  new  theory  which  may 
be  presented  to  him  in  a  specious  and  attractive 
shape.  That  is,  I  suppose,  the  negative  side.  Then 
secondly,  he  should  have  a  cultivated  taste  for  intel- 
lectual things,  a  power  of  enjoyment ;  he  should  not 
bow  meekly  to  authority  in  the  matter  of  literature, 
and  force  himself  into  the  admiration  of  what  is  pre- 
scribed, but  he  should  be  possessed  of  a  dignified 
and  wholesome  originality  ;  he  should  have  his  own 
taste  clearly  defined.  If  his  bent  is  historical,  he 
should  be  eagerly  interested  in  any  masterly  pre- 
sentation of  historical  theory,  whether  new  or  old  ; 
if  philosophical,  he  should  keep  abreast  of  modern 
speculation  ;  if  purely  literary,  he  should  be  able  to 


36  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

return  hour  after  hour  to  masterpieces  that  breathe 
and  burn. 

But  what  is  the  result  of  our  English  education  ? 
In  one  respect  admirable ;  it  turns  out  boys  who 
are  courteous,  generous,  brave,  active,  and  public- 
spirited  ;  but  is  it  impossible  that  these  qualities 
should  exist  with  a  certain  intellectual  standard? 
I  remember  now,  though  I  did  not  apply  any  theory 
at  the  time  to  the  phenomenon,  that  when  at  school 
I  used  dimly  to  wonder  at  seeing  boys  who  were 
all  these  things — fond  of  talk,  fond  of  games,  de- 
voted to  all  open-air  exercises,  conscientious  and 
wholesome-minded,  who  were  at  the  same  time 
utterly  listless  in  intellectual  things — who  could  not 
read  a  book  of  any  kind  except  the  simplest  novel, 
and  then  only  to  fill  a  vacant  hour,  who  could  not 
give  a  moment's  attention  to  the  presentment  of 
an  interesting  episode,  who  were  moreover  utterly 
contemptuous  of  all  such  things,  inclined  to  think 
them  intolerably  tedious  and  essentially  priggish — 
and  yet  these  were  the  boys  of  whom  most  was 
made,  who  were  most  popular  not  only  with  boys 
but  with  masters  as  well,  and  who,  in  our  little 
microcosmography  were  essentially  the  successful 
people,  to  be  imitated,  followed,  and  worshipped. 


THE    PUBLIC    SCHOOL    TYPE  37 

Now  if  it  were  certain  that  the  qualities  which 
are  developed  by  an  English  education  would  be 
sacrificed  if  a  higher  intellectual  standard  were 
aimed  at,  I  should  not  hesitate  to  sacrifice  the  in- 
tellectual side.  But  I  do  not  believe  it  is  necessary  ; 
and  what  is  stranger  still,  I  do  not  believe  that  most 
of  our  educators  have  any  idea  that  the  intellectual 
side  of  education  is  being  sacrificed. 

I  remember  once  hearing  a  veteran  and  suc- 
cessful educator  say  that  he  considered  a  well- 
educated  man  was  a  man  whose  mind  was  not  at 
the  mercy  of  the  last  new  book  on  any  ordinary 
subject.  If  that  is  an  infallible  test,  then  our 
public  schools  may  be  said  to  have  succeeded 
beyond  all  reasonable  expectation.  The  ordinary 
public-school  type  of  man  is  not  in  the  least  at  the 
mercy  of  the  last  new  book,  because  he  is  careful 
never  to  submit  himself  to  the  chance  of  pernicious 
bias — he  does  not  get  so  far  as  to  read  it. 

At  present  athletics  are  so  much  deferred  to, 
that  boys  seem  to  me  to  be  encouraged  deliberately 
to  lay  their  plans  as  if  life  ended  at  thirty.  But  I 
believe  that  schools  should  aim  at  producing  a  type 
that  should  develop  naturally  and  equably  with  the 
years.     What  we  want  to  produce  is  an  unselfish, 


38  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

tranquil,  contented  type,  full  of  generous  visions; 
neither  prematurely  serious  nor  incurably  frivolous, 
nor  afraid  of  responsibility,  nor  morbidly  desirous 
of  influence ;  neither  shunning  nor  courting  publi- 
city, but  natural,  wholesome,  truthful,  and  happy ; 
not  afraid  of  difficulties  nor  sadly  oppressed  with  a 
sense  of  responsibility ;  fond  of  activity  and  yet 
capable  of  using  and  enjoying  leisure ;  not  narrow- 
minded,  not  viewing  everything  from  the  standpoint 
of  a  particular  town  or  parish,  but  patriotic  and  yet 
not  insular,  modern-spirited  and  yet  not  despising 
the  past,  practical  and  yet  with  a  sense  of  spiritual 
realities. 

I  think  that  what  is  saddest  is  that  the  theoretical 
perfection  screens  the  practical  inutility  of  the  thing. 
If  it  seems  good  to  the  collective  wisdom  of  the 
country  to  let  education  go,  and  to  make  a  public- 
school  a  kind  of  healthy  barrack-life  for  the  physical 
training  of  the  body,  with  a  certain  amount  of  men- 
tal occupation  to  fill  the  vacant  hours  that  might 
otherwise  be  mischievous — pleasure  with  a  hem  of 
duty — let  it  be  frankly  admitted  that  it  is  so  ;  but 
that  the  education  received  by  boys  at  our  public- 
schools  is  now,  except  in  intention,  literary — that  is 
the  position  which  I  entirely  deny. 


THE    CLASSICS  39 

Person.illy  I  had  a  certain  feeble  taste  for  litera- 
ture. I  read  in  a  slipshod  way  a  good  deal  of 
English  poetry,  memoirs,  literary  history,  and  essays, 
but  my  reading  was  utterly  amateurish  and  unguided. 
I  even  had  some  slight  preferences  in  style,  but  I 
could  not  have  given  a  reason  for  my  preference  ;  I 
could  not  write  an  English  essay — I  had  no  idea  of 
arrangement.  I  had  never  been  told  to  "  let  the 
bones  show  ; "  I  had  no  sense  of  proportion,  and 
considered  that  anything  which  I  happened  to  have 
in  my  own  mind  was  relevant  to  any  subject  about 
which  I  was  writing.  I  had  never  learnt  to  see  the 
point  or  to  insist  upon  the  essential. 

Neither  do  I  think  that  I  can  claim  to  have  had 
any  particular  love  for  the  classics ;  but  I  was  blest 
with  a  pictorial  mind,  and  though  much  of  my 
classical  reading  was  a  mere  weariness  to  me,  I 
was  cheered  at  intervals  by  a  sudden  romantic 
glimpse  of  some  scene  or  other  that  seized  me  with 
a  vivid  reality.  The  Odyssey  and  the  ^neid  were 
rich  in  these  surprises  ;  for  the  talk  of  Gods,  indeed, 
I  had  nothing  but  bewildered  contempt ;  but  such 
a  scene  as  that  of  Laertes  in  his  patched  gaiters, 
fumbling  with  a  young  tree  on  his  upland  farm,  at 
once  seized  tyrannically  upon  my  fancy.     Catullus, 


40  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

Horace,  even  Martial,  gave  me  occasional  food  for 
the  imagination  ;  and  all  at  once  it  seemed  worth 
while  to  traverse  the  arid  leagues,  or  to  wade,  as 
Tennyson  said,  in  a  sea  of  glue,  for  these  divine 
moments. 

One  such  scene  that  affected  my  fancy  I  will 
describe  in  greater  detail ;  and  let  it  stand  as  a 
specimen.  It  was  in  the  third  ^neid  ;  we  were 
sitting  in  a  dusty  class-room,  the  gas  flaring.  The 
lesson  proceeded  slowly  and  wearily,  with  a  thin 
trickle  of  exposition  from  the  desk,  emanating  from 
a  master  who  was  evidently  as  sick  of  the  whole 
business  as  ourselves. 

Andromache,  widow  of  Hector,  after  a  forced 
union  with  Neoptolemus,  becomes  the  bride  of 
Helenus,  Hector's  brother.  Helenus  on  the  death 
of  Pyrrhus  becomes  his  successor  in  the  chieftain- 
ship, and  Andromache  is  once  more  a  queen.  She 
builds  a  rustic  altar,  an  excuse  for  lamentation,  and 
there  bewails  the  memory  of  her  first  lord.  I  was 
reflecting  that  she  must  have  made  but  a  dreary 
wife  for  Helenus,  when  in  a  moment  the  scene  was 
changed.  ./Eneas,  it  will  be  remembered,  comes 
on  her  in  her  orisons,  with  his  troop  of  warriors 
behind  him,  and  is  greeted  by  the  terrified  queen, 


VIRGIL  41 

who  believes  him  to  be  an  apparition,  with  a  wild 
and  artless  question  ending  a  burst  of  passionate 
grief:  "If  you  come  from  the  world  of  spirits,*' 
she  says,  "Hector  ubi  est?"  It  is  one  of  those 
sudden  turns  that  show  the  ineffable  genius  of 
Virgil. 

I  saw  in  a  moment  a  clearing  in  a  wood  of 
beeches  ;  one  great  tree  stood  out  from  the  rest. 
Half  hidden  in  the  foliage  stood  a  tall  stone  pillar, 
supporting  a  mouldering  urn.  Close  beside  this 
was  a  stone  alcove,  with  a  little  altar  beneath  it. 
In  the  alcove  stood  a  silent  listening  statue  with 
downcast  head.  From  the  altar  went  up  a  little 
smoke  ;  the  queen  herself,  a  slender  figure,  clad  in 
black,  with  pale  worn  face  and  fragile  hands,  bent 
in  prayer.  By  her  side  were  two  maidens,  also  in 
the  deepest  black,  a  priest  in  stiff  vestments,  and  a 
boy  bearing  a  box  of  incense. 

A  slight  noise  falls  on  the  ear  of  Andromache  ; 
she  turns,  and  there  at  the  edge  of  a  green  forest 
path,  lit  by  the  red  light  of  a  low  smouldering  sun, 
stands  the  figure  of  a  warrior,  his  arms  rusty  and 
dark,  his  mailed  feet  sunk  in  the  turf,  leaning  on 
his  spear.  His  face  is  pale  and  heavily  lined,  worn 
with  ungentle  experience,  and  lit  by  a  strange  light 


42  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

of  recognition.     His  pale  forked  beard  falls  on  his 
breast ;  behind  him  a  mist  of  spears. 

This  was  the  scene ;  very  rococo,  no  doubt,  and 
romantic,  but  so  intensely  real,  so  glowing,  that  I 
could  see  the  pale-stemmed  beeches ;  and  below, 
through  a  gap,  low  fantastic  hills  and  a  wan  river 
winding  in  the  plain.  I  could  see  the  white  set 
face  of  ^neas,  the  dark-eyed  glance  of  the  queen, 
the  frightened  silence  of  the  worshippers. 


8 

At  Cambridge  things  were  not  very  different.  I 
was  starved  intellectually  by  the  meagre  academical 
system.  I  took  up  the  Classical  Tripos,  and  read, 
with  translations,  in  the  loosest  style  imaginable, 
great  masses  of  classical  literature,  caring  little 
about  the  subject-matter,  seldom  reading  the  notes, 
with  no  knowledge  of  history,  archaeology,  or  philo- 
sophy, and  even  strangely  ignorant  of  idiom.  I  re- 
ceived no  guidance  in  these  matters  ;  my  attendance 
at  lectures  was  not  insisted  upon  ;  and  the  composi- 
tion lecturers,  though  conscientious,  were  not  inspir- 
ing men.  My  tutor  did,  it  must  be  confessed,  make 
some  attempt  to  influence  my  reading,  urging  me 
to  lay  down  a  regular  plan,  and  even  recommending 
books  and  editions.  But  I  was  too  dilatory  to  carry 
it  out ;  and  though  I  find  that  in  one  Long  Vacation 
I  read  through  the  Odyssey,  the  yEneid,  and  the 
whole  of  Aristotle's  Ethics,  yet  they  left  little  or  no 
impression  on  my  mind.  I  did  indeed  drift  into  a 
First  Class,  but  this  was  merely  due  to  familiarity 
with,  rather  than  knowledge  of  the  Classics ;  and 


44  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

my  ignorance  of  the  commonest  classical  rules  was 
phenomenal. 

But  I  did  derive  immense  intellectual  stimulus 
from  my  Cambridge  life,  though  little  from  the 
prescribed  course  of  study ;  for  I  belonged  to  a 
little  society  that  met  weekly,  and  read  papers  on 
literary  and  ethical  subjects,  prolonging  a  serious, 
if  fitful,  discussion  late  into  the  night.  I  read  a 
great  deal  of  English  in  a  sketchy  way,  and  even 
wrote  both  poetry  and  fiction  ;  but  I  left  Cambridge 
a  thoroughly  uneducated  man,  without  an  idea  of 
literary  method,  and  contemning  accuracy  and  pre- 
cisic)n  in  favour  of  brilliant  and  heady  writing.  The 
initial  impulse  to  interest  in  literature  was  certainly 
instinctive  in  me ;  but  I  maintain  that  not  only  did 
that  interest  never  receive  encouragement  from  the 
professed  educators  under  whose  influence  I  passed, 
but  that  I  was  not  even  professionally  trained  in 
the  matter  ;  that  solidity  and  accuracy  were  never 
insisted  upon  ;  and  that  the  definiteness,  which  at 
least  education  is  capable  of  communicating,  was 
either  never  imparted  by  mental  processes,  or  that 
I  successfully  resisted  the  imparting  of  it — indeed, 
never  knew  that  any  attempt  was  being  made  to 
teach  me  the  value  or  necessity  of  it. 


I  HAD  a  religious  bringing-up.  I  was  made  familiar 
with  the  Bible  and  the  offices  of  religion ;  only 
the  natural  piety  was  wanting.  I  am  quite  certain 
I  had  no  sense  of  religion  as  a  child — I  do  not 
think  I  had  any  morality.  Like  many  children,  I 
was  ruled  by  associations  rather  than  by  principles. 
I  was  sensitive  to  disapproval ;  and  being  timid  by 
nature,  I  was  averse  to  being  found  out ;  being 
moreover  lacking  in  vitality,  I  seldom  experienced 
the  sensation  of  being  brought  face  to  face  with 
temptation — rebellion,  anger,  and  sensual  impulse 
were  unknown  to  me ;  but  while  I  was  innocent, 
I  was  unconscientious  and  deceitful,  not  so  much 
deliberately  as  instinctively. 

The  sense  of  religion  I  take  to  be,  in  its  simplest 
definition,  the  consciousness  of  the  presence  of  the 
Divine  Being,  and  the  practice  of  religion  to  be  the 
maintenance  of  conscious  union  or  communion  with 
the   Divine.     These   were  entirely   lacking  to  me. 


4S 


46  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

I  accepted  the  fact  of  God's  existence  as  I  accepted 
the  facts  of  history  and  geography.  But  my  con- 
ception of  God,  if  I  may  speak  plainly  and  without 
profanity,  was  derived  from  the  Old  Testament, 
and  was  destitute  of  attractiveness.  I  conceived 
of  Him  as  old,  vindictive,  unmerciful,  occupied  in 
tedious  matters,  hostile  to  all  gaiety  and  juvenility ; 
totally  uninterested  in  the  human  race,  except 
in  so  far  that  He  regarded  their  transgressions 
with  morbid  asperity  and  a  kind  of  gloomy  satis- 
faction, as  giving  Him  an  opportunity  of  exercising 
coercive  discipline.  He  was  never  represented  to 
me  as  the  Giver  of  the  simple  joys  of  life — of  light 
and  warmth,  of  food  and  sleep,  ^s  the  Creator  of 
curious  and  sweet-smelling  flowers,  of  aromatic 
shrubs,  of  waving  trees,  of  horned  animals  and 
extravagant  insects.  Considering  how  entirely 
creatures  of  sense  children  are,  it  has  seemed  to  me 
since  that  it  would  be  well  if  their  simplest  pleasures, 
the  material  surroundings  of  their  lives,  were  con- 
nected with  the  idea  of  God — if  they  felt  that  what 
they  enjoyed  was  sent  by  Him  ;  if  it  were  said  of  a 
toy  that  "  God  sends  you  this  ;  "  or  of  some  domestic 
festivity  that  "  God  hopes  that  you  will  be  happy 
to-day," — it  appears  to  mc   that   we  should   have 


RELIGION  47 

less  of  that  dreary  philosophy  which  connects 
'*  God's  will  "  only  with  moments  of  bereavement 
and  suffering.  If  we  could  only  feel  with  Job,  that 
God,  who  sends  us  so  much  that  is  sweet  and  whole- 
some, has  equally  the  right  to  send  us  what  is 
evil,  we  could  early  grow  to  recognise  that,  when  the 
greater  part  of  our  lives  is  made  up  of  what  is  de- 
sirable or  interesting,  and  when  we  cling  to  life  and 
the  hope  of  happiness  with  so  unerring  an  instinct,  it 
is  probable,  nay,  certain,  that  our  afflictions  must  be 
ultimately  intended  to  minister  to  the  fulness  of  joy. 

Certainly  religious  practices,  though  I  enjoyed 
them  in  many  ways,  had  no  effect  on  conduct ; 
indeed,  I  never  thought  of  them  as  having  any 
concern  with  conduct.  Religious  services  never 
seemed  to  me  in  childhood  to  be  solemnities  de- 
signed for  the  hallowing  of  life,  or  indeed  as  having 
any  power  to  do  so,  but  merely  as  part  of  the  frame- 
work of  duty,  as  ceremonies  out  of  which  it  was 
possible  to  derive  a  certain  amount  of  interest  and 
satisfaction. 

Church  was  always  a  pleasure  to  me ;  I  liked 
the  mise-en-scene,  the  timbered  roof,  the  fallen  day, 
the  stained  glass,  the  stone  pillars,  the  comfortable 
pew,   the    rubricated    prayer-book,   the    music,    the 


48  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

movements  of  the  minister — these  all  had  a  definite 
aesthetic  effect  upon  me ;  moreover,  it  was  a  pleasure 
to  note,  with  the  unshrinking  gaze  of  childhood,  the 
various  delightful  peculiarities  of  members  of  the 
congregation  :  the  old  man  with  apple-red  cheeks, 
in  his  smock-frock,  who  came  with  rigid,  creaking 
boots  to  his  place  ;  the  sexton,  with  his  goat-like 
beard ;  the  solicitor,  who  emitted  sounds  in  the 
hymns  like  the  lowing  of  a  cow  ;  the  throaty  tenor, 
who  had  but  one  vowel  for  all ;  the  dowager  in 
purple  silk,  who  sat  through  the  Psalms  and  in- 
spected her  prayer-book  through  a  gold  eye-glass  as 
though  she  were  examining  some  natural  curiosity. 
All  these  were,  in  childish  parlance,  "so  funny." 
And  Church  was  thus  a  place  to  which  I  went 
willingly  and  joyfully  ;  the  activity  of  my  observa- 
tion saved  me  from  the  tedium  with  which  so  many 
children  regard  it. 

This  vacuous  aestheticism  in  the  region  of 
religion  continued  with  me  through  my  school 
days.  Of  purpose  and  principle  there  was  no 
trace.  I  do  indeed  remember  one  matter  in 
which  I  had  recourse  to  prayer.  At  my  private 
school,  a  big  suburban  establishment,  I  was  thrust 
into  a  large  dormitory,  a  shrinking  and  bewildered 


RELIGIOUS    SENTIMENT  49 

atom,  fresh  from  the  privacies  and  loving  atten- 
tions of  the  nursery,  and  required  to  undress  and 
go  to  bed  before  the  eyes  of  fifty  boys.  It  was  a 
rude  introduction  to  the  world,  and  it  is  strange  to 
reflect  upon  the  helpless  despair  with  which  a  little 
soul  can  be  filled  under  circumstances  which  to 
maturer  thoughts  appear  almost  idyllic.  But  while 
I  crouched  miserably  upon  my  bed,  as  I  prepared 
to  slip  between  the  sheets — of  which  the  hard 
texture  alone  dismayed  me — I  was  struck  by  a 
shoe,  mischievously,  but  not  brutally  thrown  by  a 
bigger  boy  some  yards  away.  Is  it  amusing  or 
pathetic  to  reflect  that  night  after  night  I  prayed 
that  this  might  not  be  repeated,  using  a  suffrage  of 
the  Litany  about  our  persecutors  and  slanderers, 
which  seemed  to  me  dismally  appropriate  ? 

At  the  public  school  to  which  I  was  shortly 
transferred,  where  I  enjoyed  a  tranquil  and  un- 
eventful existence,  religion  was  still  a  sentiment. 
Being  one  of  the  older  foundations  we  had  a  paid 
choir,  and  the  musical  service  was  a  real  delight  to 
me.  I  loved  the  dark  roof  and  the  thunders  of  the 
organ ;  even  now  I  can  recollect  the  thrill  with 
which  I  looked  day  after  day  at  the  pure  lines  of 
the    Tudor    building,    the    innumerable    clustered 


50  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

shafts  that  ran  from  pavement  to  roof  I  cared 
little  for  the  archaeology  and  history  of  the  place, 
but  the  grace  of  antiquity,  the  walls  of  mellow 
brick,  the  stone-crop  that  dripped  in  purple  tufts 
among  the  mouldering  stones  of  the  buttress,  the 
very  dust  that  clung  to  the  rafters  of  the  ancient 
refectory — all  these  I  noted  with  secret  thrills  of 
delight. 

Still  no  sense  of  reality  touched  me ;  life  was 
but  a  moving  pageant,  in  which  I  played  as  slight  a 
part  as  I  could  contrive  to  play.  I  was  inoffensive.; 
my  work  was  easy  to  me,  I  had  some  congenial 
friends,  and  dreamed  away  the  weeks  in  a  gentle 
indolence  set  in  a  framework  of  unengrossing 
duties. 

About  my  sixteenth  year  I  made  friends  with 
a  high-church  curate  whom  I  met  in  the  holidays, 
who  was  indeed  distantly  related  to  me  ;  he  was 
attached  to  a  large  London  church,  which  existed 
mainly  for  ornate  services,  and  I  used  to  go  up 
from  school  occasionally  to  see  him,  and  even 
spent  a  few  days  in  his  house  at  the  beginning  or 
end  of  the  holidays.  Looking  back,  he  seems 
to  me  now  to  have  been  a  somewhat  inert  and 
sentimental  person,  but  I  acquired  from  him  a  real 


PLEASURES    OF    RITUAL  51 

love  of  liturgical  things,  wrote  out  with  my  own 
hand  a  book  of  Hours,  carefully  rubricated — though 
I  do  not  recollect  that  I  often  used  it — and  became 
more  ceremonial  than  ever.  I  had  long  settled 
that  I  was  to  take  Orders,  and  I  well  recollect  the 
thrill  with  which  on  one  of  these  visits  I  saw  my 
friend  ascend  the  high  stone  pulpit  of  the  tall 
church,  with  flaring  lights,  in  a  hood  of  a  strange 
pattern,  which  he  assured  me  was  the  antique 
shape.  The  sermon  was,  I  even  now  recollect, 
deplorable  both  in  language  and  thought,  but  that 
seemed  to  me  a  matter  of  entire  indifference  ;  the 
central  fact  was  that  he  stood  there  vested  with 
due  solemnity,  and  made  rhetorical  motions  with  an 
easy  grace. 

At  this  time,  too,  at  school,  I  took  to  frequent- 
ing the  service  of  the  cathedral  in  the  town  when- 
ever I  was  able,  and  became  a  familiar  figure  to 
vergers  and  clergy.  I  have  no  doubt  that  were 
I  to  be  made  a  bishop,  this  fact  would  be  cited  as 
an  instance  of  early  piety,  but  the  truth  was  that 
it  was,  so  to  speak,  a  mere  amusement.  I  can 
honestly  say  that  it  had  no  sort  of  effect  on  my 
life,  which  ran  indolently  on,  side  by  side  with  the 
ritual  preoccupation,  unaffected   by  it,  and   indeed 


52  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

totally  distinct  from  it.  My  confirmation  came  in 
the  middle  of  these  diversions  ;  the  solid  and  careful 
preparation  that  I  received  I  looked  upon  as  so 
much  tedious  lecturing  to  be  decorously  borne,  and 
beside  a  dim  pleasure  in  the  ceremony,  I  do  not 
think  it  had  any  influence  of  a  practical  kind. 
Once,  indeed,  there  did  pass  a  breath  of  vital  truth 
over  my  placid  and  self-satisfied  life,  like  a  breeze 
over  still  water.  There  came  to  stay  with  us  in 
the  holidays  an  elderly  clergyman,  a  friend  of  my 
mother's,  a  London  rector,  whose  whole  life  was 
sincerely  given  to  helping  souls  to  the  light,  and 
who  had  escaped  by  some  exquisite  lucidity  of  soul 
the  self-consciousness — too  often,  alas,  the  outcome 
of  the  adulation  which  is  the  shadow  of  holy  in- 
fluence. He  had  the  gift  of  talking  simply  and 
sweetly  about  spiritual  things — indeed  nothing  else 
interested  him  ;  conversation  about  books  or  politics 
he  listened  to  with  a  gentle  urbanity  of  tolerance ; 
yet  when  he  talked  himself,  he  never  dogmatised, 
but  appealed  with  a  wistful  smile  to  his  hearers  to 
confirm  the  experiences  which  he  related.  Me, 
though  an  awkward  boy,  he  treated  with  the  most 
winning  deference,  and  on  the  morning  of  his  de- 
parture asked  me  with  delightful  grace  to  accom- 


A    BENEDICTION  53 

pany  him  on  a  short  walk,  and  opened  to  me  the 
thought  of  the  hallowing  presence  of  Christ  in 
daily  life.  It  seems  to  me  now  that  he  was  in- 
viting my  confidence,  but  I  had  none  to  give  him  ; 
so  with  a  memorable  solemnity  he  bade  me,  if  I 
ever  needed  help  in  spiritual  things,  to  come  freely 
to  him  ;  I  remember  that  he  did  so  without  any 
sense  of  patronage,  but  as  an  older  disciple,  wrest- 
ling with  the  same  difficulties,  and  only  a  little 
further  ahead  in  the  vale  of  life.  Lastly  he  took 
me  to  his  room,  knelt  down  beside  me,  and  prayed 
with  exquisite  simplicity  and  affection  that  I  might 
be  enriched  with  the  knowledge  of  Christ,  and  then 
laid  his  hand  upon  my  head  with  a  loving  benedic- 
tion. For  days  and  even  weeks  that  talk  and  that 
benediction  dwelt  with  me  ;  but  the  time  had  not 
come,  and  I  was  to  be  led  through  darker  waters  ; 
and  though  I  prayed  for  many  days  intensely  that 
some  revelation  of  truth  might  come  to  me,  yet  the 
seed  had  fallen  on  shallow  soil,  and  was  soon 
scorched  up  again  by  the  genial  current  of  my 
daily  life. 

I  think,  though  I  say  this  with  sadness,  that  he 
represented  religion  as  too  much  a  withdrawal  from 
life  for  one  so  young,  and  did  not  make  it  clear  to 


54  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

me  that  my  merriment,  my  joys,  my  interests,  and 
my  ambitions  might  be  hallowed  and  invigorated. 
He  had  himself  subordinated  life  and  character  so 
completely  to  one  end,  and  thrown  aside  (if  he  had 
ever  possessed  them)  the  dear  prejudices  and  fiery 
interests  of  individuality,  that  I  doubt  if  he  could 
have  thrown  his  imagination  swiftly  enough  back 
into  all  the  energetic  hopes,  the  engrossing  beckon- 
ings  of  opening  manhood. 


10 

The  rest  of  my  school  life  passed  without  any 
important  change  of  view.  I  became  successful  in 
games,  popular,  active-minded.  I  won  a  scholar- 
ship at  Cambridge  with  disastrous  ease. 

Then  Cambridge  life  opened  before  me.  I 
speak  elsewhere  of  my  intellectual  and  social  life 
there,  and  will  pass  on  to  the  next  event  of  im- 
portance in  my  religious  development. 

My  life  had  become  almost  purely  selfish.  I 
was  not  very  ambitious  of  academical  honours, 
though  I  meant  to  secure  a  modest  first-class ;  but 
I  was  intensely  eager  for  both  social  and  literary 
distinction,  and  submitted  myself  to  the  full  to  the 
dreamful  beauty  of  my  surroundings,  and  the  de- 
licious thrill  of  artistic  pleasures. 

I  have  often  thought  how  strangely  and  secretly 
the  crucial  moment,  the  most  agonising  crisis  of  my 
life  drifted  upon  me.  I  say  deliberately  that,  look- 
ing back  over  my  forty  years  of  life,  no  day  was  so 


56  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

fraught  for  me  with  fate,  no  hour  so  big  with  doom- 
ful  issues,  as  that  day  which  dawned  so  simply  and 
sped  past  with  such  familiar  ease  to  the  destined 
hour — that  moment  which  waved  me,  led  by  sociable 
curiosity,  into  the  darkness  of  suffering  and  agony. 
A  new  birth  indeed !  The  current  of  my  days  fell, 
as  it  were,  with  suddenness,  unexpected,  unguessed 
at,  into  the  weltering  gulf  of  despair ;  that  hour 
turned  me  in  an  instant  from  a  careless  boy  into 
a  troubled  man.  And  yet  how  easily  it  might  have 
been  otherwise — no,  I  dare  not  say  that. 

It  had  been  like  any  other  day.  I  had  been  to 
the  dreary  morning  service,  read  huskily  by  a  few 
shivering  mortals  in  the  chilly  chapel  ;  I  had 
worked,  walked  in  the  afternoon  with  a  friend,  and 
we  had  talked  of  our  plans — all  we  meant  to  do 
and  be.  After  hall,  I  went  to  have  some  coffee  in 
the  rooms  of  a  mild  and  amiable  youth,  now  a 
church  dignitary  in  the  Colonies.  I  sat,  I  remem- 
ber, on  a  deep  sofa,  which  I  afterwards  bought 
and  still  possess.  Our  host  carelessly  said  that 
a  great  Revivalist  was  to  address  a  meeting  that 
night.  Some  one  suggested  that  we  should  go. 
I  laughingly  assented.  The  meeting  was  held 
in    a    hall    in    a    side    street ;    we    went    smiling 


THE    EVANGELIST  57 

and  talking,  and  took  our  places  in  a  crowded 
room.  The  first  item  was  the  appearance  of  an 
assistant,  who  accompanied  the  evangelist  as  a  sort 
of  precentor — an  immense  bilious  man,  with  black 
hair,  and  eyes  surrounded  by  flaccid,  pendent,  baggy 
wrinkles  —  who  came  forward  with  an  unctuous 
gesture,  and  took  his  place  at  a  small  harmonium, 
placed  so  near  the  front  of  the  platform  that  it 
looked  as  if  both  player  and  instrument  must  inevi- 
tably topple  over ;  it  was  inexpressibly  ludicrous  to 
behold.  Rolling  his  eyes  in  an  affected  manner,  he 
touched  a  few  simple  cords,  and  then  a  marvellous 
transformation  came  over  the  room.  In  a  sweet, 
powerful  voice,  with  an  exquisite  simplicity  com- 
bined with  irresistible  emotion,  he  sang  "  There 
were  Ninety-and-Nine."  The  man  was  trans- 
figured. A  deathly  hush  came  over  the  room,  and 
I  felt  my  eyes  fill  with  tears  ;  his  physical  repulsive- 
ness  slipped  from  him,  and  left  a  sincere  impulsive 
Christian,  whose  simple  music  spoke  straight  to  the 
heart. 

Then  the  preacher  himself — a  heavy-looking, 
commonplace  man,  with  a  sturdy  figure  and  no 
grace  of  look  or  gesture — stepped  forward.  I  have 
no   recollection    how    he    began,    but    he   had    not 


58  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

spoken  half-a-dozen  sentences  before  I  felt  as 
though  he  and  I  were  alone  in  the  world.  The 
details  of  that  speech  have  gone  from  me.  After  a 
scathing  and  indignant  invective  on  sin,  he  turned 
to  draw  a  picture  of  the  hollow,  drifting  life,  with 
feeble,  mundane  ambitions — utterly  selfish,  giving 
no  service,  making  no  sacrifice,  tasting  the  moment, 
gliding  feebly  down  the  stream  of  time  to  the 
roaring  cataract  of  death.  Every  word  he  said 
burnt  into  my  soul.  He  seemed  to  me  to  probe 
the  secrets  of  my  innermost  heart ;  to  be  analysing, 
as  it  were,  before  the  Judge  of  the  world,  the  arid 
and  pitiful  constituents  of  my  most  secret  thought. 
I  did  not  think  I  could  have  heard  him  out  ...  his 
words  fell  on  me  like  the  stabs  of  a  knife.  Then 
he  made  a  sudden  pause,  and  in  a  peroration  of 
incredible  dignity  and  pathos  he  drew  us  to  the  feet 
of  the  crucified  Saviour,  showed  us  the  bleeding 
hand  and  the  dimmed  eye,  and  the  infinite  heart 
behind.  "  Just  accept  Him,"  he  cried  ;  "  in  a 
moment,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  you  may  be 
His — nestling  in  His  arms — with  the  burden  of  sin 
and  selfishness  resting  at  His  feet." 

Even   as    he    spoke,    pierced  as  I    was  to  the 
heart  by  contrition   and  anguish,  I    knew  that  this 


WOUNDED    DEEP  59 

was  not  for  me  .  .  .  He  invited  all  who  would  be 
Christ's  to  wait  and  plead  with  him.  Many  men — 
even,  I  was  surprised  to  see,  a  careless,  cynical 
companion  of  my  own — crowded  to  the  platform,  but 
I  went  out  into  the  night,  like  one  dizzied  with  a 
sudden  blow.  I  was  joined,  I  remember,  by  a 
tutor  of  my  college,  who  praised  the  eloquence  of 
the  address,  and  was  surprised  to  find  me  so  little 
responsive  ;  but  my  only  idea  was  to  escape  and  be 
alone  :  I  felt  like  a  wounded  creature,  who  must 
crawl  into  solitude.  I  went  to  my  room,  and  after 
long  and  agonising  prayers  for  light,  an  intolerable 
weariness  fell  on  me,  and  I  slept. 

I  awoke  at  some  dim  hour  of  the  night  in  the 
clutch  of  insupportable  fear  ;  let  me  say  at  once  that 
with  the  miserable  weeks  that  followed  there  was 
mingled  much  of  physical  and  nervous  suffering,  far 
more,  indeed,  than  I  then  knew,  or  was  permitted 
to  know.  I  had  been  reading  hard,  and  throwing 
myself  with  unaccustomed  energy  into  a  hundred 
new  ideas  and  speculations.  I  had  had  a  few 
weeks  before  a  sudden  attack  of  sleeplessness, 
which  should  have  warned  me  of  overstrain.  But 
now  every  nervous  misery  known  to  man  beset  me 
— intolerable  depression,  spectral  remorse,  nocturnal 


6o  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

terrors.  My  work  was  neglected.  I  read  the 
Bible  incessantly,  and  prayed  for  the  hour  together. 
Sometimes  my  depression  would  leave  me  for  a 
few  hours,  like  a  cat  playing  with  a  mouse,  and 
leap  upon  me  like  an  evil  spirit  in  the  middle  of 
some  social  gathering  or  harmless  distraction,  strik- 
ing the  word  from  my  lips  and  the  smile  from  my 
face. 

For  some  weeks  this  lasted,  and  I  think  I  was 
nearly  mad.  Two  strange  facts  I  will  record.  One 
day,  beside  myself  with  agitation,  seeing  no  way 
out — for  my  prayers  seemed  to  batter,  as  it  were, 
like  waves  against  a  stony  and  obdurate  cliff,  and 
no  hope  or  comfort  ever  slid  into  my  soul — I  wrote 
two  letters  :  one  to  an  eminent  Roman  Catholic,  in 
whose  sermons  I  had  found  some  encouragement, 
and  one  to  the  elder  friend  I  have  above  spoken  of. 
In  two  days  I  received  the  answers.  That  from  the 
Romanist  hard,  irritated,  and  bewildered — my  only 
way  was  to  submit  myself  to  true  direction,  and 
he  did  not  see  that  I  had  any  intention  of  doing 
this  ;  that  it  was  obvious  that  I  was  being  plagued 
for  some  sin  which  I  had  not  ventured  to  open  to 
him.  I  burnt  the  letter  with  a  hopeless  shudder. 
The  other  from  my  old  friend,  appointing  a  time  to 


LIBERTY  6i 

meet  me,  and  saying  that  he  understood,  and  that 
my  prayers  would  avail. 

I  went  soon  after  to  see  him,  in  a  dark  house  in 
a  London  square.  He  heard  me  with  the  utmost 
patience,  bade  me  believe  that  I  was  not  alone  in 
my  experience ;  that  in  many  a  life  there  was — 
there  must  be — some  root  of  bitterness  that  must 
flower  before  the  true  seed  could  be  sown,  and 
adding  many  other  manly  and  tender  things. 

He  gave  me  certain  directions,  and  though  I 
will  confess  that  I  could  not  follow  them  for  long — 
the  soul  must  find  her  own  path,  I  think,  among 
the  crags — yet  he  led  me  into  a  calmer,  quieter, 
more  tranquil  frame  of  mind  ;  he  taught  me  that  I 
must  not  expect  to  find  the  way  all  at  once,  th;it 
long  coldness  and  habitual  self-deceit  must  be 
slowly  purged  away.  But  I  can  never  forget  the 
infinite  gratitude  I  owe  him  for  the  loving  and 
strenuous  way  in  which  he  brought  me  out  into 
a  place  of  liberty  with  the  tenderness  of  a  true 
father  in  God. 


11 

Thus  rudely  awakened  to  the  paramount  necessity 
of  embracing  a  faith,  bowing  to  a  principle,  obeying 
a  gentle  force  which  should  sustain  and  control  the 
soul,  I  flung  myself  for  a  time  with  ardour  into 
theological  reading,  my  end  not  erudition,  but  to 
drink  at  the  source  of  life.  Is  it  arrogant  to  say 
that  I  passed  through  a  painful  period  of  disillusion- 
ment ?  all  round  the  pure  well  I  found  traces  of 
strife  and  bitterness.  I  cast  no  doubt  on  the  sin- 
cerity and  zeal  of  those  who  had  preceded  me  ;  but 
not  content  with  drinking,  and  finding  their  eyes 
enlightened,  they  had  stamped  the  margin  of  the 
pool  into  the  mire,  and  the  waters  rose  turbid  and 
strife-stained  to  the  lip.  Some,  like  cattle  on  a 
summer  evening,  seemed  to  stand  and  brood  within 
the  pool  itself,  careless  if  they  fouled  the  waters ; 
others  had  built  themselves  booths  on  the  margin, 
and  sold  the  precious  draughts  in  vessels  of  their 

own,  enraged  that  any  should  desire  the  authentic 

69 


DISCERNING    THE    FAITH  63 

stream.  There  was,  it  seemed,  but  little  room  for 
the  wayfarer ;  and  the  very  standing  ground  was 
encumbered  with  impotent  folk. 

Not  to  strain  a  metaphor,  I  found  that  the 
commentators  obscured  rather  than  assisted.  What 
I  desired  was  to  realise  the  character,  to  divine  the 
inner  thoughts  of  Jesus,  to  be  fired  by  the  impetu- 
ous eloquence  of  Paul,  to  be  strengthened  by  the 
ardent  simplicity  of  John.  These  critics,  men  of 
incredible  diligence  and  patience,  seemed  to  me  to 
make  a  fence  about  the  law,  and  to  wrap  the  form 
I  wished  to  see  in  innumerable  vestments  of  curious 
design.  Readers  of  the  Protagoras  of  Plato  will 
remember  how  the  great  sophist  spoke  from  the 
centre  of  a  mass  of  rugs  and  coverlets,  among 
which,  for  his  delectation,  he  lay,  while  the  humming 
of  his  voice  filled  the  arches  of  the  cloister  with  a 
heavy  burden  of  sound.  I  found  myself  in  the 
same  position  as  the  disciples  of  Protagoras  ;  the 
voice  that  I  longed  to  hear,  spoke,  but  it  had  to 
penetrate  through  the  wrappings  and  veils  which 
these  men,  in  their  zeal  for  service,  had  in  mistaken 
reverence  flung  about  the  lively  oracle. 

A  wise  man  said  to  me  not  long  ago  that  the 
fault   of  teaching    nowadays    was    that    knowledge 


64  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

was  all  coined  into  counters ;  and  that  the  desire  of 
learners  seemed  to  be  not  to  possess  themselves 
of  the  ore,  not  to  strengthen  and  toughen  the  mind 
by  the  pursuit,  but  to  possess  themselves  of  as 
many  of  these  tokens  as  possible,  and  to  hand  them 
on  unchanged  and  unchangeable  to  those  who  came 
to  learn  of  themselves. 

This  was  my  difficulty  ;  the  shelves  teemed  with 
books,  the  lecturers  cried  aloud  in  every  College 
court,  like  the  jackdaws  that  cawed  and  clanged 
about  the  venerable  towers  ;  and  for  a  period  I  flew 
with  notebook  and  pen  from  lecture  to  lecture,  enter- 
ing admirable  maxims,  acute  verbal  distinctions, 
ingenious  parallels  in  my  poor  pages.  At  home  I 
turned  through  book  after  book,  and  imbued  myself 
in  the  learning  of  the  schools,  dreaming  that, 
though  the  rind  was  tough,  the  precious  morsels 
lay  succulent  within. 

In  this  conceit  of  knowleds^e  I  was  led  to  leave 
my  College  and  to  plunge  into  practical  life  ;  what 
my  work  was  shall  presently  be  related,  but  I  will 
own  that  it  was  a  relief.  I  had  begun  to  feel  that 
though  I  had  learnt  the  use  of  the  tools,  I  was  no 
nearer  finding  the  precious  metal  of  which  I  was  in 
search. 


THE    FATHER  65 

The  further  development  of  my  faith  after  this 
cannot  be  told  in  detail,  but  it  may  be  briefly 
sketched,  after  a  life  of  some  intellectual  activity, 
not  without  practical  employment,  which  has  now 
extended  over  many  years. 

I  began,  I  think,  very  far  from  Christ.  The 
only  vital  faith  that  I  had  at  first  was  an  intense 
instinctive  belief  in  the  absolute  power,  the  infinite 
energies,  of  the  Father  ;  to  me  he  was  not  only 
Almighty,  as  our  weak  word  phrases  it,  a  Being 
who  could,  if  he  would,  exert  His  power,  but 
iravTOKpaTuip  —  all-conquering,  all-subduing.  I  was 
led,  by  a  process  of  mathematical  certainty,  to  see 
that  if  the  Father  was  anywhere.  He  was  every- 
where ;  that  if  He  made  us  and  bade  us  be.  He  was 
responsible  for  the  smallest  and  most  sordid  details 
of  our  life  and  thought,  as  well  as  for  the  noblest 
and  highest.  It  cannot  indeed  be  otherwise  ;  every 
thought  and  action  springs  from  some  cause,  in 
many  cases  referable  to  events  which  took  place  in 
lives  outside  of  and  anterior  to  our  own.  In  any 
case  in  which  a  man  seems  to  enjoy  the  faculty  of 
choice,  his  choice  is  in  reality  determined  by  a 
number  of  previous  causes  ;  given  all  the  data,  his 
action    could    be    inevitably    predicted.       Thus     I 


66  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

gradually  realised  that  sin  in  the  moral  world,  and 
disease  in  the  physical,  are  each  of  them  some 
manifestation  of  the  Eternal  Will.  If  He  gives  to 
me  the  joy  of  life,  the  energy  of  action,  did  He  not 
give  it  to  the  subtle  fungus,  to  the  venomous  bac- 
teria which,  once  established  in  our  bodies,  are 
known  by  the  names  of  cancer  and  fever  ?  Why  all 
life  should  be  this  uneasy  battle  I  know  not ;  but  if 
we  can  predicate  consciousness  of  any  kind  to  these 
strange  rudiments,  the  living  slime  of  the  pit,  is  it 
irreverent  to  say  that  faith  may  play  a  part  in  their 
work  as  well?  When  the  health-giving  medicine 
pours  along  our  veins,  what  does  it  mean  but  that 
everywhere  it  leaves  destruction  behind  it,  and  that 
the  organisms  of  disease  which  have,  with  delighted 
zest,  been  triumphing  in  their  chosen  dwelling  and 
rioting  in  the  instinctive  joy  of  life,  sadly  and  mutely 
resign  the  energy  that  animates  them,  or  sink  into 
sleep.  It  is  all  a  balance,  a  strife,  a  battle.  Why  such 
striving  and  fighting,  such  uneasy  victory  and  deep 
unrest  should  be  the  Father's  will  for  all  His 
creatures,  I  know  not  ;  but  that  it  is  a  condition,  a 
law  of  His  own  mind,  I  can  reverently  believe. 
When  we  sing  the  Benediciie,  which  I  for  one  do 
with  all  my  heart,  we  must  be  conscious  that  it  is 


THE    JOY    OF    THE    WORLD  67 

only  a  selection,  after  all,  of  phenomena  that  are 
impressive,  delightful,  or  useful  to  ourselves.  No- 
thing that  we  call,  God  forgive  us,  noxious,  finds  a 
place  there.  St.  Francis,  indeed,  went  further,  and 
praised  God  for  "  our  sister  the  Death  of  the  Body," 
but  in  the  larger  Benedicite  of  the  universe,  which 
is  heard  by  the  ear  of  God,  the  fever  and  the 
pestilence,  the  cobra  and  the  graveyard  worm  utter 
their  voices  too  ;  and  who  shall  say  that  the  Father 
hears  them  not  ? 

If  one  believes  that  happiness  is  inch  by  inch 
diminishing,  that  it  is  all  a  losing  fight,  then  it  must 
be  granted  that  we  have  no  refuge  but  in  a  Stoic 
hardening  of  the  heart  ;  but  when  we  look  at  life 
and  see  the  huge  preponderance  of  joy  over  pain — • 
such  tracts  of  healthy  energy,  sweet  duty,  quiet 
movement — indeed,  when  we  see,  as  we  often  do, 
the  touching  spectacle  of  hope  and  joy  again  and 
again  triumphant  over  weakness  and  weariness  : 
when  we  see  such  unselfishness  abroad,  such  ardent 
desire  to  lighten  the  loads  of  others  and  to  bear 
their  burdens  ;  then  it  is  faithless  indeed  if  we  allow 
ourselves  to  believe  that  the  Father  has  any  end 
in  view  but  the  ultimate  happiness  of  all  the  in- 
numerable units,  which  He  endows  with  independent 


68  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

energies,  and  which,  one  by  one,  after  their  short 
taste  of  this  beautiful  and  exquisite  world,  resign 
their  powers  again,  often  so  gladly,  into  His 
hand. 

But  the  fault,  if  I  may  so  phrase  it,  of  this  faith, 
is  the  vastness  of  the  conception  to  which  it  opens 
the  mind.  When  I  contemplate  this  earth  with  its 
continents  and  islands,  its  mountains  and  plains,  all 
stored  with  histories  of  life  and  death,  the  bones  of 
dead  monsters,  the  shattered  hulks  of  time  ;  the 
vast  briny  ocean  with  all  the  mysterious  life  that 
stirs  beneath  the  heaving  crests ;  when  I  realise 
that  even  this  world,  with  all  its  infinite  records  of 
life,  is  but  a  speck  in  the  heavens,  and  that  every 
one  of  the  suns  of  space  may  be  surrounded  with 
the  same  train  of  satellites,  in  which  some  tumultuous 
drama  of  life  may  be,  nay,  must  be  enacting  itself — 
that  even  on  the  fiery  orbs  themselves  some  appal- 
ling Titan  forms  may  be  putting  forth  their  pro- 
digious energies,  suffering  and  dying — the  mind  of 
man  reels  before  the  thought ; — and  yet  all  is  in  the 
mind  of  God.  The  consciousness  of  the  microscopic 
minuteness  of  my  own  life  and  energies,  which  yet 
are  all  in  all  to  me,  becomes  crushing  and  paralysing 
in  the  light  of  such  a  thought.     It  seems  impossible 


OUR    INSIGNIFICANCE  69 

to  believe,  in  the  presence  of  such  a  spectacle,  that 
the  single  life  can  have  any  definite  importance,  and 
the  temptation  comes  to  resign  all  effort,  to  swim  on 
the  stream,  just  planning  life  to  be  as  easy  and  as 
pleasant  as  possible,  before  one  sinks  into  the 
abyss. 


12 

From  such  a  paralysis   of  thought    and    life    two 
beliefs  have  saved  me. 

First,  it  may  be  confessed,  came  the  belief  in  the 
Spirit  of  God,  the  thought  of  inner  holiness,  not 
born  from  any  contemplation  of  the  world  around, 
which  seems  indeed  to  point  to  far  different  ideals. 
Yet  as  true  and  truer  than  the  bewildering  example 
of  nature  is  the  inner  voice  which  speaks,  after  the 
wind  and  storm,  in  the  silent  solitudes  of  the  soul. 
That  this  voice  exists  and  is  heard  can  admit  of  no 
tangible  demonstration  ;  each  must  speak  for  him- 
self;  but  experience  forbids  me  to  doubt  that  there 
is  something  which  contradicts  the  seduction  of 
appetite,  something  which  calls,  as  it  were,  a  flush 
to  the  face  of  the  soul  at  the  thought  of  triumphs 
of  sense,  a  voice  that  without  being  derisive  or 
harsh,  yet  has  a  terrible  and  instantaneous  severity ; 
and  wields  a  mental  scourge,  the  blows  of  which 
are  no  less  fearful  to  receive  because  they  are  ac- 
companied with  no  physical  disaster.     To  recognise 

70 


THE    MASTER  71 

this  voice  as  the  very  voice  and  word  of  the  Father 
to  sentient  souls,  is  the  inevitable  result  of  experi- 
ence and  thought 

Then  came  the  triumphant  belief,  weak  at  first, 
but  taking  slow  shape,  that  the  attitude  of  the  soul 
to  its  Maker  can  be  something  more  than  a  distant 
reverence,  an  overpowering  awe,  a  humble  worship  ; 
the  belief,  the  certainty  that  it  can  be,  as  it  were,  a 
personal  link — that  we  can  indeed  hold  converse 
with  God,  speak  with  Him,  call  upon  Him,  put,  to 
use  a  human  phrase,  our  hand  in  His,  only  desiring 
to  be  led  according  to  His  will. 

Then  came  the  further  step  ;  after  some  study  of 
the  systems  of  other  teachers  of  humanity,  after  a 
desire  to  find  in  the  great  redeemers  of  mankind, 
in  Buddha,  Socrates,  Mahomet,  Confucius,  Shake- 
speare, the  secret  of  self-conquest,  of  reconciliation, 
the  knowledge  slowly  dawns  upon  the  mind  that  in 
Jesus  of  Galilee  alone  we  are  in  the  presence  of  some- 
thinof  which  enliofhtens  man  not  from  within  but 
from  without.  The  other  great  teachers  of  humanity 
seem  to  have  looked  upon  the  world  and  into  their 
own  hearts,  and  deduced  from  thence,  by  flashes  of 
indescribable  genius,  some  order  out  of  the  chaos, 
some  wise  and  temperate  scheme,  but  with  Jesus — 


72  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

though  I  long  resisted  the  conviction — it  is  different. 
He  comes,  not  as  a  man  speaking  by  observation 
and  thought,  but  as  a  visitant  from  some  secret 
place,  who  knows  the  truth  rather  than  guesses  at 
it.  I  need  not  say  that  his  reporters,  the  Gospel 
writers,  had  but  an  imperfect  conception  of  His 
majesty.  His  ineffable  greatness — it  could  not  well 
be  otherwise  ;  the  mystery  rather  is  that  with  such 
simple  views  of  life,  such  elementary  conceptions  of 
the  scheme  of  things,  they  yet  gave  so  much  of  the 
stupendous  truth,  and  revealed  Jesus  in  his  words 
and  acts  as  the  Divine  Man,  who  spoke  to  man  not 
by  spiritual  influences  but  by  the  very  authentic 
utterance  of  God.  Such  teaching  as  the  parables, 
such  scenes  as  the  raising  of  Lazarus,  or  the  midday 
talk  by  the  wayside  well  of  Sychar,  emerge  from  all 
art  and  history  with  a  dignity  that  lays  no  claim  to 
the  majesty  that  they  win ;  and  as  the  tragedy 
darkens  and  thickens  to  its  close,  such  scenes  as 
the  trial,  recorded  by  St.  John,  and  the  sacred  death, 
bring  home  to  the  mind  the  fact  that  no  mere 
humanity  could  bear  itself  with  such  gentle  and 
tranquil  dignity,  such  intense  and  yet  such  unselfish 
suffering  as  were  manifested  in  the  Son  of  Man. 
And  so,  as  the  traveller  goes  out  and  wanders 


THE    RETURN  73 

through  the  cities  of  men,  among  stately  palaces, 
among  the  glories  of  art,  or  climbs  among  the 
aching  solitudes  of  lonely  mountains,  or  feasts  his 
eyes  upon  green  isles  floating  in  sapphire  seas,  and 
returns  to  find  that  the  old  strait  dwelling-place,  the 
simple  duties  of  life,  the  familiar  friends,  homely 
though  they  be,  are  the  true  anchors  of  the  spirit ;  so, 
after  a  weary  pilgrimage,  the  soul  comes  back,  with 
glad  relief,  with  wistful  tenderness,  to  the  old  beliefs 
of  childhood,  which,  in  its  pride  and  stubbornness,  it 
cast  aside,  and  rejected  as  weak  and  inadequate 
and  faded  ;  finds  after  infinite  trouble  and  weari- 
ness that  it  has  but  learnt  afresh  what  it  knew  ;  and 
that  though  the  wanderer  has  ransacked  the  world, 
digged  and  drunk  strange  waters,  trafficked  for 
foreign  merchandise,  yet  the  Pearl  of  Price,  the 
White  Stone  is  hidden  after  all  in  his  own  garden- 
ground,  and  inscribed  with  his  own  new  name. 


13 

I  NEED  not  enter  very  closely  into  the  period  of  my 
life  which  followed  the  university.  After  a  good 
deal  of  hesitation  and  uncertainty  I  decided  to  enter 
for  the  Home  Civil  Service,  and  obtained  a  post  in 
a  subordinate  office.  The  work  I  found  not  wholly 
uninteresting,  but  it  needs  no  special  record  here. 
I  acquired  the  knowledge  of  how  to  conduct  busi- 
ness, a  certain  practical  power  of  foreseeing  contin- 
gencies, a  certain  acquaintance  with  legal  procedure, 
and  some  knowledge  of  human  nature  in  its  official 
aspect. 

Intellectually  and  morally  this  period  of  my  life 
was  rather  stagnant.  I  had  been  through  a  good 
deal  of  excitement,  of  mental  and  moral  malady,  of 
general  bouleversement.  Nature  exacted  a  certain 
amount  of  quiescence,  melancholy  quiescence  for 
the  most  part,  because  I  felt  myself  singularly  with- 
out energy  to  carry  out  my  hopes  and  schemes,  and 
at  the  same  time  it  seemed  that  time  was  ebbing 

74 


LITERARY    WORK  75 

away  purposelessly,  and  that  I  was  not  driving,  so 
to  speak,  any  piles  in  the  fluid  and  oozy  substratum 
of  ideas  on  which  my  life  seemed  built.  To  revel 
in  metaphors,  I  was  like  a  snake  which  has  with  a 
great  strain  bolted  a  quadruped,  and  needs  a  long 
space  of  uneasy  and  difficult  digestion.  But  at  the 
time  I  did  not  see  this  ;  I  only  thought  I  was  losing 
time  :  I  felt  with  Milton — • 

"How  soon  hath  time,  the  subtle  thief  of  youth, 
Stolen  on  his  wing  my  three-and-twentieth  year.* 

But  beset  as  I  was  by  the  sublime  impatience  of 
youth,  I  had  not  serenity  enough  to  follow  out  the 
thouehts  which  Milton  works  out  in  the  rest  of  the 
sonnet. 

At  the  same  time,  so  far  as  literary  work  went, 
to  which  I  felt  greatly  drawn,  I  was  not  so  im- 
patient. I  wrote  a  great  deal  for  my  private  amuse- 
ment, and  to  practise  facility  of  expression,  but  with 
little  idea  of  hurried  publication.  A  story  which  I 
sent  to  a  well-known  editor  was  courteously  re- 
turned to  me,  with  a  letter  in  which  he  stated  that 
he  had  read  my  work  carefully,  and  that  he  felt  it 
a  duty  to  tell  me  that  it  was  "sauce  without  meat." 
This   kind   and   wholesome   advice   made   a   great 


76  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

difference  to  me ;  I  determined  that  I  would  at- 
tempt to  live  a  little  before  I  indulged  in  baseless 
generalisation,  or  lectured  other  people  on  the  art  of 
life.  I  soon  gained  great  facility  in  writing,  and 
developed  a  theory,  which  I  have  since  had  no 
reason  to  doubt,  that  performance  is  simply  a  matter 
of  the  intensity  of  desire.  If  one  only  wants  enough 
to  complete  a  definite  piece  of  work,  be  it  poem, 
essay,  story,  or  some  far  more  definite  and  prosaic 
task,  I  have  found  that  it  gets  itself  done  in  spite 
of  the  insistent  pressure  of  other  businesses  and 
the  deadening  monotony  of  heavy  routine,  simply 
because  one  goes  back  to  it  with  delight,  schemes 
to  clear  time  for  it,  waits  for  it  round  corners,  and 
loses  no  time  in  spurring  and  whipping  the  mind 
to  work,  which  is  necessary  in  the  case  of  less 
attractive  tasks.  The  moment  that  there  comes  a 
leisurely  gap,  the  mind  closes  on  the  beloved  work 
like  a  limpet ;  when  this  happens  day  after  day  and 
week  after  week,  the  accumulations  become  pro- 
digious. 

I  thus  felt  gradually  more  and  more,  that  when 
the  magnum  optis  did  present  itself  to  be  done,  I 
should  probably  be  able  to  carry  it  through  ;  and 
meanwhile  I  had  sufficient  self-respect,  although   I 


LONDON  Tj 

suffered  twinges  of  thwarted  ambition,  not  to  force 
my  crude  theories,  my  scrambling  prose,  or  my 
faltering  verse  upon  the  world. 

Meanwhile  I  lived  a  lonely  sort  of  life,  with 
two  or  three  close  intimates.  I  never  really  cared 
for  London,  but  it  is  at  the  same  time  idle  to  deny 
its  fascination.  In  the  first  place  it  is  full  from 
day  to  day  of  prodigious,  astounding,  unexpected 
beauties — sometimes  beauty  on  a  noble  scale,  in 
the  grand  style,  such  as  when  the  sunset  shakes 
its  hair  among  ragged  clouds,  and  the  endless 
leagues  of  house-roofs  and  the  fronts  of  town 
palaces  dwindle  into  a  far-off  steely  horizon-line 
under  the  huge  and  wild  expanse  of  sky.  Some- 
times it  is  the  smaller,  but  no  less  alluring  beauty 
of  subtle  atmospherical  effects  ;  and  so  conventional 
is  the  human  appreciation  of  beauty  that  the  con- 
stant presence,  in  these  London  pictures,  of  straight 
framing  lines,  contributed  by  house-front  and  street- 
end,  is  an  aid  to  the  imagination.  Again,  there  is 
the  beauty  of  contrasts  ;  the  vignettes  afforded  by 
the  sudden  blossoming  of  rustic  flowers  and  shrubs 
in  unexpected  places  ;  the  rustle  of  green  leaves  at 
the  end  of  a  monotonous  street.  And  then,  apart 
from  natural  beauty,  there   is  the  vast,  absorbing, 


78  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

incredible  pageant  of  humanity,  full  of  pathos,  of 
wistfulness,  and  of  sweetness.  But  of  this  I  can 
say  but  little ;  for  it  always  moved  me,  and  moves 
me  yet,  with  a  sort  of  horror.  I  think  it  was  always 
to  me  a  spectacular  interest ;  I  never  felt  one  with 
the  human  beings  whom  I  watched,  or  even  in  the 
same  boat,  so  to  speak,  with  them ;  the  contempla- 
tion of  the  fact  that  I  am  one  of  so  many  millions 
has  been  to  me  a  humiliating  rather  than  an  inspir- 
ing thought ;  it  dashes  the  pleasure  of  individuality  ; 
it  arraigns  the  soul  before  a  dark  and  inflexible  bar. 
Passing  daily  through  London,  there  is  little  possi- 
bility in  the  case  of  an  imaginative  man  for  hopeful 
expansion  of  the  heart,  little  ground  for  anything 
but  an  acquiescent  acceptance.  Under  these  con- 
ditions it  is  too  rudely  brought  home  to  me  to  be 
wholesome,  how  ineffective,  undistinguished,  typical, 
minute,  uninteresting  any  one  human  being  is  after 
all :  and  though  the  sight  of  humanity  in  every 
form  is  attractive,  bewildering,  painfully  interesting, 
thrilling,  and  astounding — though  one  finds  un- 
expected beauty  and  goodness  everywhere — yet  I 
recognise  that  city  life  had  a  deadening  effect  on 
my  consciousness,  and  hindered  rather  than  helped 
the  development  of  thought  and  life. 


THE    ARTIST  79 

Still,  in  other  ways  this  period  was  most 
valuable — it  made  me  practical  instead  of  fanci- 
ful ;  alert  instead  of  dreamy  ;  it  made  me  feel  what 
I  had  never  known  before,  the  necessity  for  grasp- 
ing the  exact  point  of  a  matter,  and  not  losing  one- 
self among  side  issues.  It  helped  me  out  of  the 
entirely  amateurish  condition  of  mind  into  which  I 
had  been  drifting — and,  moreover,  it  taught  me  one 
thing  which  I  had  never  realised,  a  lesson  for  which 
I  am  profoundly  grateful,  namely  that  literature 
and  art  play  a  very  small  part  in  the  lives  of  the 
majority  of  people  ;  that  most  men  have  no  sort  of 
an  idea  that  they  are  serious  matters,  but  look  upon 
them  as  more  or  less  graceful  amusements  ;  that  in 
such  regions  they  have  no  power  of  criticism,  and 
no  judgment ;  but  that  these  are  not  nearly  such 
serious  defects  as  the  defect  of  vision  which  the 
artist  and  the  man  of  letters  suffer  from  and  encour- 
age— the  defect,  I  mean,  of  treating  artistic  ideals 
as  matters  of  pre-eminent  national,  even  of  moral 
importance.  They  must  be  content  to  range  them- 
selves frankly  with  other  craftsmen  ;  they  may  sus- 
tain themselves  by  thinking  that  they  may  help, 
a  very  little,  to  ameliorate  conditions,  to  elevate 
the  tone  of  morality  and  thought,  to  provide  sources 


So  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

of  recreation,  to  strengthen  the  sense  of  beauty; 
but  they  must  remember  that  they  cannot  hope  to 
belong  to  the  primal  and  elemental  things  of  life. 
Not  till  the  primal  needs  are  satisfied  does  the 
work  of  the  poet  and  the  artist  begin — "After  the 
banquet,  the  minstrel." 

The  poet  and  the  artist  too  often  live,  like  the 
Lady  of  Shalott,  weaving  a  magic  web  of  fair  and 
rich  colour,  but  dealing  not  with  life  itself,  and  not 
even  with  life  viewed  z/>sis  oculzs,  but  in  the  magic 
mirror.  The  Lady  of  Shalott  is  doubly  secluded 
from  the  world  ;  she  does  not  mingle  with  it,  she 
does  not  even  see  it ;  so  the  writer  sometimes  does 
not  even  see  the  life  which  he  describes,  but  draws 
his  knowledge  secondhand,  through  books  and 
bookish  secluded  talk.  I  do  not  think  that  I  under- 
rate the  artistic  vocation  ;  but  it  is  only  one  of  many, 
and,  though  different  in  kind,  certainly  not  superior 
to  the  vocation  of  those  who  do  the  practical  work 
of  the  world. 

From  this  dangerous  heresy  I  was  saved  just  at 
the  moment  when  it  was  waiting  to  seize  upon  me, 
and  at  a  time  when  a  man's  convictions  are  apt  to 
settle  themselves  for  life,  by  contact  with  the  pro- 
saic, straightforward  and  commonplace  world. 


DIVERSIONS  8l 

At  one  time  I  saw  a  certain  amount  of  society  ; 
my  father's  old  friends  were  very  kind  to  me,  and  1 
was  thus  introduced  to  what  is  a  far  more  interesting 
circle  of  society  than  the  circle  which  would  rank 
itself  highest,  and  which  spends  an  amount  of  serious 
toil  in  the  search  of  amusement,  with  results  which 
to  an  outsider  appear  to  be  unsatisfactory.  The 
circle  to  which  I  gained  admittance  was  the  official 
set — men  who  had  definite  and  interestinor  work 
in  the  world — barristers,  government  officials,  poli- 
ticians and  the  like,  men  versed  in  affairs,  and 
with  a  hard  and  definite  knowledgfe  of  what  was 
really  going  on.  Here  I  learnt  how  different  is  the 
actual  movement  of  politics  from  the  reflection  of  it 
which  appears  in  the  papers,  which  often  definitely 
conceals  the  truth  from  the  public. 

My  amusements  at  this  period  were  of  the 
mildest  character ;  I  spent  Sundays  in  the  summer 
months  at  Golden  End  ;  Sundays  in  the  winter  as  a 
rule  at  my  lodgings  ;  and  devoted  the  afternoons  on 
which  I  was  free,  to  long  aimless  rambles  in  London, 
or  even  farther  afield.  I  have  an  absurd  pleasure 
in  observing  the  details  of  domestic  architecture ; 
and  there  is  a  variety  of  entertainment  to  be  de- 
rived, for  a  person  with  this  low  and  feeble  taste, 


82  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

from  the  exploration  of  London,  which  would 
probably  be  inconceivable  to  persons  of  a  more 
conscientious  artistic  standard. 

At  this  period  I  had  few  intimates  ;  and  sociable 
as  I  had  been  at  school  and  college,  I  was  now 
thrown  far  more  on  my  own  resources  ;  I  some- 
times think  it  was  a  wise  and  kindly  preparation 
for  what  was  coming ;  and  I  certainly  learnt  the 
pleasures  to  be  derived  from  reading  and  lonely 
contemplation  and  solitary  reflection,  pleasures 
which  have  stood  me  in  good  stead  in  later  days. 
I  used  indeed  to  think  that  the  enforced  spending 
of  so  many  hours  of  the  day  with  other  human 
beings  gave  a  peculiar  zest  to  these  solitary  hours. 
Whether  this  was  wholesome  or  natural  I  know  not, 
but  I  certainly  enjoyed  it,  and  lived  for  several 
years  a  life  of  interior  speculation  which  was 
neither  sluggish  nor  morbid.  I  learnt  my  business 
thoroughly,  and  in  all  probability  I  should  have 
settled  down  quietly  and  comfortably  to  the  life  of  a 
bachelor  official,  rotating  from  chambers  to  office  and 
from  office  to  club,  had  it  not  been  that  just  at  the 
moment  when  I  was  beginning  to  crystallise  into 
sluggish,  comfortable  habits,  I  was  Hung  by  a  rude 
shock  into  a  very  different  kind  of  atmosphere. 


14 

I  MUST  now  relate,  however  briefly,  the  event 
which  once  for  all  determined  the  conditions  of 
my  present  life.  For  the  last  six  months  of  my 
professional  work  I  had  been  feeling  indefinitely 
though  not  decidedly  unwell.  I  found  myself 
disinclined  to  exertion,  bodily  or  mental,  easily 
elated,  easily  depressed,  at  times  strangely  somno- 
lent, at  others  irritably  wakeful ;  at  last  some 
troublesome  symptoms  warned  me  that  I  had 
better  put  myself  in  the  hands  of  a  doctor.  I 
went  to  a  local  practitioner  whose  account  dis- 
quieted me ;  he  advised  me  to  apply  to  an  eminent 
specialist,  which  I  accordingly  did. 

I  am  not  likely  to  forget  the  incidents  of  that 
day.  I  went  up  to  London,  and  made  my  way 
to  the  specialist's  house.  After  a  dreary  period 
of  waiting,  in  a  dark  room  looking  out  on  a  blank 
wall,  the  table  abundantly  furnished  with  periodicals 

whose  creased  and  battered  aspect  betokened  the 

•3 


84  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

nervous  handling  to  which  they  had  been  sub- 
jected, I  was  at  last  summoned  to  the  presence 
of  the  great  man  himself.  He  presented  an  ap- 
pearance of  imperturbable  good-nature ;  his  rosy- 
cheeks,  his  little  snub  nose,  his  neatly  groomed 
appearance,  his  gold-rimmed  spectacles,  wore  an 
air  of  commonplace  prosperity  that  was  at  once 
reassuring.  He  asked  me  a  number  of  questions, 
made  a  thorough  examination,  writing  down  cer- 
tain details  in  a  huge  volume,  and  finally  threw 
himself  back  in  his  chair  with  a  deliberate  air 
that  somewhat  disconcerted  me.  At  last  my  sen- 
tence came.  I  was  undoubtedly  suffering  from 
the  premonitory  symptoms  of  a  serious,  indeed 
dangerous  complaint,  and  I  must  at  once  submit 
myself  to  the  condition  of  an  invalid  life.  He  drew 
out  a  table  of  diet,  and  told  me  to  live  a  healthy, 
quiet  life  under  the  most  restful  conditions  attain- 
able. He  asked  me  about  my  circumstances,  and 
I  told  him  with  as  much  calmness  as  I  could 
muster.  He  replied  that  I  was  very  fortunate, 
that  I  must  at  once  give  up  professional  work  and 
be  content  to  vegetate.  "  Mind,"  he  said,  "  I  don't 
want  you  to  be  bored — that  will  be  as  bad  for  you 
as    to  be  overworked.       But    you   must   avoid    all 


THE    VERDICT  85 

kinds  of  worry  and  fatigue — all  extremes.  I  should 
not  advise  you  to  travel  at  present,  if  you  like  a 
country  life — in  fact  I  should  say,  live  the  life  that 
attracts  you,  apart  from  any  professional  exertions  ; 

don't  do  anything  you  don't  like.     Now,  Mr. ," 

he  continued,  "  I  have  told  you  the  worst — the 
very  worst.  I  can't  say  whether  your  constitution 
will  triumph  over  this  complaint :  to  be  candid,  I 
do  not  think  it  will  ;  but  there  is  no  question  of 
any  immediate  risk  whatever.  Indeed,  if  you  were 
dependent  on  your  own  exertions  for  a  livelihood, 
I  could  promise  you  some  years  of  work — though 
that  would  render  it  almost  impossible  for  you 
ever  to  recover.  As  it  is,  you  may  consider  that 
you  have  a  chance  of  entire  recovery,  and  if  you 
can  follow  my  directions,  and  no  unforeseen  com- 
plications intervene,  I  think  you  may  look  forward 
to  a  fairly  long  life ;  but  mind  that  any  work  you 
do  must  be  of  the  nature  of  amusement.  Once 
and  for  all,  strain  of  any  sort  is  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, and  if  you  indulge  in  any  excessive  or  exciting 
exertions,  you  will  inevitably  shorten  your  life. 
There,  I  have  told  you  a  disagreeable  truth — make 
the  best  of  it — remember  that  I  see  many  people 
every  week  who  have  to  bear  far  more  distressing 


86  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

communications.  You  had  better  come  to  see  me 
every  three  months,  unless  you  have  any  marked 
symptoms,  such  as  " — (there  followed  medical  details 
with  which  I  need  not  trouble  the  reader) — "  in  that 
case  come  to  me  at  once ;  but  I  tell  you  plainly 
that  I  do  not  anticipate  them.  You  seem  to  have 
what  I  call  the  patient  temperament — to  have  a 
vocation,  if  I  may  say  so,"  (here  he  smiled  benevo- 
lently) "for  the  invalid  life."  He  rose  as  he  spoke, 
shook  hands  kindly,  and  opened  the  door. 


15 

I  WILL  confess  that  at  first  this  communication 
was  a  great  shock  to  me ;  I  was  for  a  time  be- 
wildered and  plunged  into  a  deep  dejection.  To 
say  farewell  to  the  bustle  and  activity  of  life — to 
be  laid  aside  on  a  shelf,  like  a  cracked  vase, 
turning  as  far  as  possible  my  ornamental  front  to 
the  world,  spoilt  for  homely  service.  To  be 
relegated  to  the  failures ;  to  be  regarded  and 
spoken  of  as  an  invalid  —  to  live  the  shadowed 
life,  a  creature  of  rules  and  hours,  fretting  over 
drugs  and  beef  tea — a  degrading,  a  humiliating 
role.  I  admit  that  the  first  weeks  of  my  enforced 
retirement  were  bitter  indeed.  The  perpetual  fret 
of  small  restrictions  had  at  first  the  effect  of  making 
me  feel  physically  and  mentally  incapable.  Only 
very  gradually  did  the  sad  cloud  lift.  The  first 
thing  that  came  to  my  help  was  a  totally  unex- 
pected   feeling.      When    I    had    got    used    to   the 

altered  conditions  of  life,   when   I  found  that  the 

87 


88  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

regulated  existence  had  become  to  a  large  extent 
mechanical,  when  I  had  learnt  to  decide  instinc- 
tively what  I  could  attempt  and  what  I  must  leave 
alone,  I  found  my  perceptions  curiously  heightened 
and  intensified  by  the  shadowy  background  which 
enveloped  me.  Sounds  and  sights  thrilled  me  in 
an  unaccustomed  way — the  very  thought,  hardly 
defined,  but  existing  like  a  quiet  subconsciousness, 
that  my  tenure  of  life  was  certainly  frail,  and  might 
be  brief,  seemed  to  bring  out  into  sharp  relief  the 
simple  and  unnoticed  sensations  of  ordinary  life. 
The  pure  gush  of  morning  air  through  the  opened 
casement,  the  delicious  coolness  of  water  on  the 
languid  body,  the  liquid  song  of  birds,  the  sprouting 
of  green  buds  upon  the  hedge,  the  sharp  and  aro- 
matic scent  of  rosy  larch  tassels,  the  monotonous 
babble  of  the  stream  beneath  its  high  water  plants, 
the  pearly  laminae  of  the  morning  cloudland,  the 
glowing  wrack  of  sunset  with  the  liquid  bays  of 
intenser  green  —  all  these  stirred  my  spirit  with 
an  added  value  of  beauty,  an  enjoyment  at  once 
passionate  and  tranquil,  as  though  they  held  some 
whispered  secret  for  the  soul. 

The  same  quickening  effect  passed,   I  noticed, 
over    intellectual    perceptions.      Pictures    in   which 


NEW    PERCEPTIONS  89 

there  was  some  latent  quality,  some  hidden 
brooding,  some  mystery  lying  beneath  and  be- 
yond superficial  effect,  gave  up  their  secrets  to 
my  eye.  Music  came  home  to  me  with  an 
intensity  of  pathos  and  passion  which  I  had 
before  never  even  suspected,  and  even  here  the 
same  subtle  power  of  appreciation  seemed  to 
have  been  granted  me.  It  seemed  that  I  was 
no  longer  taken  in  by  technical  art  or  mechanical 
perfection.  The  hard  rippling  cascades  which 
had  formerly  attracted  me,  where  a  musician  was 
merely  working  out,  if  I  may  use  the  word,  some 
subject  with  a  mathematical  precision,  seemed  to 
me  hollow  and  vain ;  all  that  was  pompous  and 
violent  followed  suit,  and  what  I  now  seemed  to 
be  able  to  discern  was  all  that  endeavoured,  how- 
ever faultily,  to  express  some  ardour  of  the  spirit, 
some  indefinable  delicacy  of  feeling. 

Something  of  the  same  power  seemed  to  be 
mine  in  dealing  with  literature.  All  hard  brilliance, 
all  exaggerated  display,  all  literary  agility  and  diplo- 
macy that  might  have  once  deceived  me,  appeared 
to  ring  cracked  and  thin ;  mere  style,  style  that 
concealed  rather  than  expressed  thought,  fell  as 
it  were  in  glassy  tinkling  showers  on  my  initiated 


90  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

spirit ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  all  that  was  truth- 
fully felt,  sincerely  conceived  or  intensely  desired, 
drew  me  as  with  a  magical  compulsion.  It  was 
then  that  I  first  perceived  what  the  sympathy,  the 
perception  born  of  suffering  might  be,  when  that 
suffering  was  not  so  intrusive,  so  severe,  as  to  throw 
the  sick  spirit  back  upon  itself — then  that  I  learnt 
what  detachment,  what  spectatorial  power  might  be 
conferred  by  a  catastrophe  not  violent,  but  sure,  by  a 
presage  of  distant  doom.  I  felt  like  a  man  who  has 
long  stumbled  among  intricate  lanes,  his  view  ob- 
scured by  the  deep-cut  earth-walls  of  his  prison,  and 
by  the  sordid  lower  slopes  with  their  paltry  details, 
when  the  road  leads  out  upon  the  open  moor,  and 
when  at  last  he  climbs  freely  and  exultingly  upon  the 
broad  grassy  shoulders  of  the  hill.  The  true  per- 
spective— the  map  of  life  opened  out  before  me ; 
I  learnt  that  all  art  is  only  valuable  when  it  is  the 
sedulous  flowering  of  the  sweet  and  gracious  spirit, 
and  that  beyond  all  power  of  human  expression 
lies  a  province  where  the  deepest  thoughts,  the 
highest  mysteries  of  the  spirit  sleep — only  guessed 
at,  wrestled  with,  hankered  after  by  the  most  skilled 
master  of  all  the  arts  of  mortal  subtlety. 

Perhaps  the  very  thing  that  made  these  fleeting 


THE   SHADOW  91 

impressions  so  perilously  sweet,  was  the  sense  of 
their  evanescence. 

But  oh,  the  very  reason  why 
I  love  them,  is  because  they  die. 

In  this  exalted  mood,  wuth  this  sense  of  heightened 
perception  all  about  me,  I  began  for  awhile  to 
luxuriate.  I  imagined  that  I  had  learnt  a  permanent 
lesson,  gained  a  higher  level  of  philosophy,  escaped 
from  the  grip  of  material  things.  Alas  !  it  was  but 
transitory.  I  had  not  triumphed.  What  I  did  gain, 
what  did  stay  with  me,  was  a  more  deliberate  in- 
tention of  enjoying  simple  things,  a  greater  ex- 
pectation of  beauty  in  homely  life.  This  remained, 
but  in  a  diminished  degree.  I  suppose  that  the 
mood  was  one  of  intense  nervous  tension,  for  by 
degrees  it  was  shadowed  and  blotted,  until  I  fell 
into  a  profound  depression.  At  best  what  could 
I  hope  for  ? — a  shadowed  life,  an  inglorious  gloom  ? 
The  dull  waste  years  stretched  before  me — days, 
weeks,  months  of  wearisome  little  duties  ;  dreary 
tending  of  the  lamp  of  life ;  and  what  a  life ! 
life  without  service,  joy,  brightness,  or  usefulness. 
I  was  to  be  stranded  like  a  hulk  on  an  oozy  shore, 
only  thankful    for    every  month  that    the    sodden 


92  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

timbers  still  held  together.  I  saw  that  something 
larger  and  deeper  was  required  ;  I  saw  that  religion 
and  philosophy  must  unite  to  form  some  definite 
theory  of  life,  to  build  a  foundation  on  which  I 
could  securely  rest. 


16 

The  service  of  others,  in  some  form  or  another, 
must  sustain  me.  Philosophy  pointed  out  that  to 
narrow  my  circle  every  year,  to  turn  the  microscope 
of  thought  closer  and  closer  upon  my  frail  self, 
would  be  to  sink  month  by  month  deeper  into 
egotism  and  self-pity.  Religion  gave  a  more 
generous  impulse  still. 

What  is  our  duty  with  respect  to  philanthropy  ? 
It  is  obviously  absurd  to  think  that  every  one  is 
bound  to  tie  themselves  hand  and  foot  to  some 
thoroughly  uncongenial  task.  Fitness  and  vocation 
must  come  in.  Clergy,  doctors,  teachers  are 
perhaps  the  most  obvious  professional  philanthro- 
pists ;  for  either  of  the  two  latter  professions  I  was 
incapacitated.  Some  hovering  thought  of  attempt- 
ing to  take  orders,  and  to  become  a  kind  of  amateur, 
unprofessional  curate,  visited  me  ;  but  my  religious 
views  made  that  difficult,  and  the  position  of  a  man 
who  preaches  what  he  does  not  wholly  believe  is 
inconsistent    with    self-respect.         Christianity     as 

93 


94  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

taught  by  the  sects  seemed  to  me  to  have  drifted 
hopelessly  away  from  the  detached  simplicity  in- 
culcated by  Christ ;  to  have  become  a  mere  part  of 
the  social  system,  fearfully  invaded  and  overlaid  by 
centuries  of  unintelligent  tradition.  To  work,  for 
instance,  even  with  Mr.  Woodward,  at  his  orders, 
on  his  system,  would  have  been  an  impossibility 
both  for  him  and  for  myself.  I  had,  besides,  a 
strong  feeling  that  work,  to  be  of  use,  must  be  done, 
not  in  a  spirit  of  complacent  self-satisfaction,  but  at 
least  with  some  energy  of  enjoyment,  some  con- 
viction. It  seemed  moreover  clear  that,  for  a  time 
at  all  events,  my  place  and  position  in  the  world 
was  settled :  I  must  live  a  quiet  home  life,  and 
endeavour,  at  all  events,  to  restore  some  measure  of 
effective  health.  How  could  I  serve  my  neighbours 
best  ?  They  were  mostly  quiet  country  people — a 
few  squires  and  clergy,  a  few  farmers,  and  many 
farm  labourers.  Should  I  accept  a  country  life  as 
my  sphere,  or  was  I  bound  to  try  and  find  some 
other  outlet  for  whatever  effectiveness  I  possessed  •■* 
I  came  deliberately  to  the  conclusion  that  I  was 
not  only  not  bound  to  go  elsewhere,  but  that  it  was 
the  most  sensible,  wisest,  and  Christian  solution  to 
stay  where  I  was  and  make  some  experiments. 


BEGINNINGS  95 

The  next  practical  difficulty  was  hoiv  I  could 
help.  English  people  have  a  strong  sense  of  in- 
dependence. They  would  neither  understand  nor 
value  a  fussy,  dragooning  philanthropist,  who  bustled 
about  among  them,  finding  fault  with  their  domestic 
arrangements,  lecturing,  dictating.  I  determined 
that  I  would  try  to  give  them  the  help  they  wanted  ; 
not  the  help  I  thought  they  ought  to  want.  That 
I  would  go  among  them  with  no  idea  of  improving, 
but  of  doing,  if  possible,  neighbourly  and  unob- 
trusive kindnesses,  and  that  under  no  circumstances 
would  I  diminish  their  sense  of  independence  by 
weak  generosity. 

About  this  time,  my  mother  at  luncheon  happened 
to  mention  that  the  widow  of  a  small  farmer,  who 
was  living  in  a  cottage  not  fifty  yards  from  our  gate, 
was  in  trouble  about  her  eldest  boy,  who  was  dis- 
obedient, idle,  and  unsatisfactory.  He  had  been 
employed  by  more  than  one  neighbour  in  garden 
work,  but  had  lost  two  places  by  laziness  and 
impertinence.  Here  was  a  poini  d'appui.  In 
the  afternoon  I  strolled  across  ;  nervous  and  shy, 
I  confess,  to  a  ridiculous  deg^ree.  I  knew  the 
woman  by  sight,  and  little  more.  I  felt  thoroughly 
unfitted  for   my    role,    and    feared    that  patronage 


96  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

would  be  resented.  However,  I  went  and  found 
Mrs.  Dewhurst  at  home.  I  was  received  with  real 
geniality  and  something  of  delicate  sympathy — the 
news  of  my  illness  had  got  about.  I  determined 
I  would  ask  no  leading  questions,  but  bit  by  bit 
her  anxieties  were  revealed  :  the  boy  was  a  trouble 
to  her.  "  What  did  he  want  ?  "  She  didn't  know  ; 
but  he  was  discontented  and  naughty,  had  got  into 
bad  company.  I  asked  if  it  would  be  any  good  my 
seeing  the  boy,  and  found  that  it  would  evidently 
be  a  relief.  I  asked  her  to  send  the  boy  to  me  that 
evening,  and  went  away  with  a  real  and  friendly 
handshake,  and  an  invitation  to  come  again.  In 
the  evening  Master  Dewhurst  turned  up — a  shy, 
uninteresting,  rather  insolent  boy,  strong  and  well- 
built,  and  with  a  world  of  energy  in  his  black  eyes. 
I  asked  him  what  he  wanted  to  do,  and  after  a  little 
talk  it  all  came  out  :  he  was  sick  of  the  place  ;  he 
did  not  want  garden  work.  "  What  would  he  do  .•* 
What  did  he  like  ?  "  I  found  that  he  wanted  to  see 
something  of  the  world.  Would  he  go  to  sea."* 
The  boy  brightened  up  at  once,  and  then  said  he 
didn't  want  to  leave  his  mother.  Our  interview 
closed,  and  this  necessitated  my  paying  a  further 
call  on   the  mother,    who   was  most  sensible,  and 


MY    SCHEMES  97 

evidently  felt  that  what  the  boy  wanted  was  a 
thorough  change. 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  it  cost  me  a  few 
letters  and  a  very  little  money,  defined  as  a  loan  ; 
the  boy  went  off  to  a  training  ship,  and  after  a  few 
weeks  found  that  he  had  the  very  life  he  wanted  ; 
indeed,  he  is  now  a  promising  young  sailor,  who 
never  fails  to  write  to  me  at  intervals,  and  who 
comes  to  see  me  whenever  he  comes  home.  The 
mother  is  a  firm  friend.  Now  that  I  am  at  my 
ease  with  her,  I  am  astonished  at  the  shrewdness 
and  sense  of  her  talk. 

It  would  be  tedious  to  recount,  as  I  could,  fifty 
similar  adventures  ;  my  enterprises  include  a  village 
band,  a  cricket  club,  a  co-operative  store  ;  but  the 
personal  work,  such  as  it  is,  has  broadened  every 
year :  I  am  an  informal  adviser  to  thirty  or  forty 
families,  and  the  correspondence  entailed,  to  say 
nothing  of  my  visits,  gives  me  much  pleasant  occupa- 
tion. The  circle  now  insensibly  widens  ;  I  do  not 
pretend  that  there  are  not  times  of  weariness,  and 
even  disagreeable  experiences  connected  with  it.  I 
am  a  poor  hand  in  a  sick-room,  I  confess  it  with 
shame  ;  my  mother,  who  is  not  particularly  inter- 
ested in  her  neighbours,  is  ten  times  as  effective. 


98  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

But  what  I  feel  most  strongly  about  the  whole, 
is  the  intense  interest  which  has  grown  up  about  it. 
The  trust  which  these  simple  folk  repose  in  me  is 
the  factor  which  rescues  me  from  the  indolent  im- 
pulse to  leave  matters  alone;  even  if  I  desired  to  do 
so,  I  could  not  for  very  shame  disappoint  them. 
Moreover,  I  cannot  pretend  that  it  takes  up  very 
much  time.  The  institutions  run  themselves  for  the 
most  part.  I  don't  overdo  my  visits ;  indeed,  I 
seldom  go  to  call  on  my  friends  unless  there  is 
something  specific  to  be  done.  But  I  am  always  at 
home  for  them  between  seven  and  eight.  My 
downstairs  smoking-room,  once  an  office,  has  a  door 
which  opens  on  the  drive,  so  that  it  is  not  necessary 
for  these  Nicodemite  visitors  to  come  through  the 
house.  Sometimes  for  days  together  I  have  no 
one  ;  sometimes  I  have  three  or  four  callers  in  the 
evening.  I  don't  talk  religion  as  a  rule,  unless  I 
am  asked  ;  but  we  discuss  politics  and  local  matters 
with  avidity.  I  have  persistently  refused  to  take 
any  office,  and  I  fear  that  our  neighbours  think  me 
a  very  lazy  kind  of  dilettante,  who  happens  to  be 
interested  in  the  small-talk  of  rustics.  I  will  not  be 
a  Guardian,  as  I  have  little  turn  for  business  ;  and 
when  it  was  suggested  to  me  that  I  might  be  a  J. P., 


THE    REWARD  99 

I  threw  cold  water  on  the  scheme.  Any  official 
position  would  alter  my  relation  to  my  friends,  and 
I  should  often  be  put  in  a  difficulty  ;  but  by  being 
absolutely  unattached,  I  find  that  confidential 
dealings  are  made  easy. 

I  fear  that  this  will  sound  a  very  shabby,  un- 
romantic,  and  gelatinous  form  of  philanthropy,  and 
I  am  quite  unable  to  defend  it  on  utilitarian 
principles.  I  can  only  say  that  it  is  deeply  absorb- 
ing ;  that  it  pays,  so  to  speak,  a  large  interest  on  a 
small  investment  of  trouble,  and  that  it  has  given 
me  a  sense  of  perspective  in  human  things  which 
I  never  had  before.  The  difficulty  in  writing  about 
it  is  to  abstain  from  platitudes  ;  I  can  only  say  that 
it  has  revealed  to  me  how  much  more  emotion  and 
experience  go  to  make  up  a  platitude  than  I  ever 
suspected  before  in  my  ambitious  days. 


17 

Ennui  is,  after  all,  the  one  foe  that  we  all  fear ; 
and  in  arranging  our  life,  the  most  serious  pre- 
occupation is  how  to  escape  it.  The  obvious  reply 
is,  of  course,  "  plenty  of  cheerful  society."  But  is 
not  general  society  to  a  man  with  a  taste  for 
seclusion  the  most  irritating,  wearing,  ennuyeux 
method  of  filling  the  time  ?  It  is  not  the  actual 
presence  of  people  that  is  distressing,  though  that 
in  some  moods  is  unbearable,  but  it  is  the  conscious- 
ness of  duties  towards  them,  whether  as  host  or 
guest,  that  sits,  like  the  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  upon 
one's  shoulders.  A  considerable  degree  of  seclusion 
can  be  attained  by  a  solitary-minded  man  at  a  large 
hotel.  The  only  time  of  the  day  when  you  are 
compelled  to  be  gregarious  is  the  table  d'hote 
dinner ;  and  then,  even  if  you  desire  to  talk,  it  is 
often  made  impossible  by  the  presence  of  foreigners 
among  whom  one  is  sandwiched.  But  take  a  visit 
at  a  large   English   country-house  :  a  mixed  party 


ENNUI  loi 

with  possibly  little  in  common  ;  the  protracted 
meals,  the  vacuous  sessions,  the  interminable 
promenades.  Men  are  better  off  than  women  in 
this  respect,  as  at  most  periods  of  the  year  they  are 
swept  off  in  the  early  forenoon  to  some  vigorous 
employment,  and  are  not  expected  to  return  till  tea- 
time.  But  take  such  a  period  in  August,  a  month 
in  which  many  busy  men  are  compelled  to  pay 
visits  if  they  pay  them  at  all.  Think  of  the 
desultory  cricket  matches,  the  futile  gabble  of 
garden  parties. 

Of  course  the  desire  of  solitude,  or  rather,  the 
nervous  aversion  to  company,  may  become  so  in- 
tense as  to  fall  under  the  head  of  monomania ; 
doctors  give  it  an  ugly  name,  I  know  not  exactly 
what  it  is,  like  the  agoraphobia,  which  is  one  of 
the  subsections  of  a  certain  form  of  madness. 
Agoraphobia  is  the  nervous  horror  of  crowds, 
which  causes  persons  afflicted  by  it  to  swoon 
away  at  the  prospect  of  having  to  pass  through 
a  square  or  street  crowded  with  people. 

But  the  dislike  of  visitors  is  a  distinct,  but  quite 
as  specific  form  of  nervous  mania.  One  lady  of 
whom  I  have  heard  was  in  the  habit  of  darting 
to  the  window  and  involving  herself  in  the  window- 


I02  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

curtain  the  moment  she  heard  a  ring  at  the  bell ; 
another,  more  secretive  still,  crept  under  the  sofa. 
Not  so  very  long  ago  I  went  over  a  great  house 
in  the  North  ;  my  host  took  me  to  a  suite  of  upper 
rooms  with  a  charming  view.  "These,"  he  said, 
"were  inhabited  by  my  old  aunt  Susan  till  her 
death  some  months  ago ;  she  was  somewhat 
eccentric  in  her  habits " — here  he  thrust  his  foot 
under  a  roomy  settee  which  stood  in  the  window, 
and  to  my  intense  surprise  a  bell  rang  loudly 
underneath — "Ah,"  he  said,  rather  shamefacedly, 
"they  haven't  taken  it  off."  I  begged  for  an  ex- 
planation, and  he  said  that  the  old  lady  had  formed 
an  inveterate  habit  of  creeping  under  the  settee 
the  moment  she  heard  a  knock  at  the  door ;  to 
cure  her  of  it,  they  hung  a  bell  on  a  spring  beneath 
it,  so  that  she  gave  warning  of  her  whereabouts. 

Society  is  good  for  most  of  us ;  but  solitude 
is  equally  good,  as  a  tonic  medicine,  granted  that 
sociability  is  accepted  as  a  factor  in  our  life.  A 
certain  deliberate  solitude,  like  the  fast  days  in 
the  Roman  Church,  is  useful,  even  if  only  by  way 
of  contrast,  and  that  we  may  return  with  fresh 
zest  to  ordinary  intercourse. 

People  who  are  used  to  sociable  life  find  often 


SOLITUDE  103 

the  smallest  gap,  the  smallest  touch  of  solitude 
oppressive  and  ennuyetix;  and  it  may  be  taken  for 
granted  that  the  avoidance  of  ennui,  in  whatever 
form  that  whimsical  complaint  makes  itself  felt,  is 
one  of  the  most  instinctive  prepossessions  of  the 
human  race ;  but  it  does  not  follow  that  solitude 
should  not  be  resolutely  practised  ;  and  any  sociable 
person  who  had  strength  of  mind  to  devote,  say, 
one  day  of  the  week  to  absolute  and  unbroken  lone- 
liness would  find  not  only  that  such  times  would 
come  to  have  a  positive  value  of  their  own,  but  that 
they  would  enhance  infinitely  the  pleasures  of  social 
life. 

It  is  a  curious  thing  how  fast  the  instinct  for 
solitude  grows.  A  friend  of  mine,  a  clergyman,  a 
man  of  an  inveterately  sociable  disposition,  was 
compelled  by  the  exigencies  of  his  position  to  take 
charge  of  a  lonely  sea-coast  parish,  the  incumbent 
of  which  had  fallen  desperately  ill.  The  parish  was 
not  very  populous,  and  extremely  scattered ;  the 
nearest  houses  inhabitated  by  educated  people  were 
respectively  four  and  five  miles  away — my  friend 
was  poor,  an  indifferent  walker,  and  had  no  vehicle 
at  his  command. 

He  went   off,  he   told    me,   with    extreme  and 


104  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

acute  depression.  He  found  a  small  rectory-house 
with  three  old  silent  servants.  He  established  him- 
self there  with  his  books,  and  began  in  a  very- 
heavy-hearted  way  to  discharge  the  duties  of  the 
position  ;  he  spent  his  mornings  in  quiet  reading  or 
strolling — the  place  lay  at  the  top  of  high  cliffs  and 
included  many  wild  and  magnificent  prospects. 
The  afternoon  he  spent  in  trudging  over  the  parish, 
making  himself  acquainted  with  the  farmers  and 
other  inhabitants  of  the  region.  In  the  evening  he 
read  and  wrote  again.  He  had  not  been  there  a 
week  before  he  became  conscious  that  the  life  had 
a  charm.  He  had  written  in  the  first  few  days  of 
his  depression  to  several  old  friends  imploring  them 
to  have  mercy  on  his  loneliness.  Circumstances 
delayed  their  arrival,  and  at  last  when  he  had  been 
there  some  six  weeks,  a  letter  announcing  the  arrival 
of  an  old  friend  and  his  wife  for  a  week's  visit  gave 
him,  he  confessed,  far  more  annoyance  than  pleasure. 
He  entertained  them,  however,  but  felt  distinctly 
relieved  when  they  departed.  At  the  end  of  the 
six  months  I  saw  him,  and  he  told  me  that  solitude 
was  a  dangerous  Circe,  seductive,  delicious,  but  one 
that  should  be  resolutely  and  deliberately  shunned, 
an  opiate  of  which  one  could  not  estimate  the  fasci- 


SOLITUDE  105 

nation.  And  I  am  not  speaking  of  a  torpid  or 
indolent  man,  but  a  man  of  force,  intellect,  and  cul- 
tivation, of  a  restless  mind  and  vivid  interests. 


^T/ie  passages  that  follow  were   either  extracted  by  the 
author  himself  from  his  own  diaries,  or  are  taken 
from  a   notebook   containing  fragments  of  an  auto- 
biographical character.      When  the  date  is  ascertain- 
able it  is  given  at  the  head  of  the  piece, — J.  T.] 


18 

Now  I  will  draw,  carefully,  faithfully,  and  lovingly, 
the  portraits  of  some  of  my  friends  ;  they  are  not 
ever  likely  to  set  eyes  on  the  delineation  :  and  if  by 
some  chance  they  do,  they  will  forgive  me,  I  think. 

I  have  chosen  three  or  four  of  the  most  typical 
of  my  not  very  numerous  neighbours,  though  there 
are  many  similar  portraits  scattered  up  and  down 
my  diaries. 

It  happened  this  morning  that  a  small  piece  of 
parish  business  turned  up  which  necessitated  my 
communicating  with  Sir  James,  our  chief  landowner. 
Staunton  is  his  name,  and  his  rank  is  baronet.  He 
comes  of  a  typically  English  stock.  As  early  as 
the  fourteenth  century  the  Stauntons  seem  to  have 
held  land  in  the  parish  ;  they  were  yeomen,  no 
doubt,  owning  a  few  hundred  acres  of  freehold.  In 
the  sixteenth  century  one  of  them  drifted  to  London, 
made  a  fortune,  and,  dying  childless,  left  his  money 
to  the  head  of  the  house,  who  bought  more  land, 

xo6 


SIR    JAMES  107 

built  a  larger  house,  became  esquire,  and  eventually 
knight ;  his  brass  is  in  the  church.  They  were 
unimaginative  folk,  and  whenever  the  country  was 
divided,  they  generally  contrived  to  find  themselves 
upon  the  prosaic  and  successful  side. 

Early  in  the  eighteenth  century  there  were  two 
brothers  :  the  younger,  a  clergyman,  by  some  happy 
accident  became  connected  with  the  Court,  made  a 
fortunate  marriage,  and  held  a  deanery  first,  and 
then  a  bishopric.  Here  he  amassed  a  considerable 
fortune.  His  portrait,  which  hangs  at  the  Park,  re- 
presents a  man  with  a  face  of  the  shape  and  colour  of 
a  ripe  plum,  with  hardly  more  distinction  of  feature, 
shrouded  in  a  full  wig.  Behind  him,  under  a  velvet 
curtain,  stands  his  cathedral,  in  a  stormy  sky.  The 
bishop's  monument  is  one  of  the  chief  disfigurements, 
or  the  chief  ornaments  of  our  church,  according  as 
your  taste  is  severe  or  catholic.  It  represents  the 
deceased  prelate  in  a  reclining  attitude,  with  a  some- 
what rueful  expression,  as  of  a  man  fallen  from  a 
considerable  height.  Over  him  bends  a  solicitous 
angel  in  the  attitude  of  one  inquiring  what  is  amiss. 
One  of  the  prelate's  delicate  hands  is  outstretched 
from  a  gigantic  lawn  sleeve,  like  a  haggis,  which 
requires   an   iron   support  to  sustain   it  ;  the  other 


io8  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

elbow  is  propped  upon  some  marble  volumes  of 
controversial  divinity.  In  an  alcove  behind  is  a 
tumid  mitre,  quite  putting  into  the  shade  a  meagre 
celestial  crown  with  marble  rays,  which  is  pushed 
unceremoniously  into  the  top  of  the  recess. 

The  bishop  succeeded  his  elder  brother  in  the 
estate,  and  added  largely  to  the  property.  The 
bishop's  only  son  sat  for  a  neighbouring  borough, 
and  was  created  a  baronet  for  his  services,  which 
were  of  the  most  straightforward  kind.  At  this  point, 
by  one  of  the  strange  freaks  of  which  even  county 
families  are  sometimes  guilty,  a  curious  gleam  of 
romance  flashed  across  the  dull  record.  The  baronet's 
eldest  son  developed  dim  literary  tastes,  drifted  to 
London,  became  a  hanger-on  of  the  Johnsonian  circle 
— his  name  occurs  in  footnotes  to  literary  memoirs 
of  the  period  ;  married  a  lady  of  questionable 
reputation,  and  published  two  volumes  of  "  Letters 
to  a  Young  Lady  of  Quality,"  which  combine,  to  a 
quite  singular  degree,  magnificence  of  diction  with 
tenuity  of  thought.  This  Jack  Staunton  was  a  spend- 
thrift, and  would  have  made  strange  havoc  of  the 
estate,  but  his  father  fortunately  outlived  him  ;  and 
by  the  offer  of  a  small  pension  to  Mrs.  Jack,  who 
was  left  hopelessly  destitute,  contrived  to  get  the 


THE    BARONETS  109 

little  grandson  and  heir  into  his  own  hands.     The 
little  boy  developed  into  the  kind  of  person  that  no 
one  would  desire  as  a  descendant,  but  that  all  would 
envy   as  an  ancestor.      He  was  a  miser  pure  and 
simple.      In  his  day  the  tenants  were  ground  down, 
rents  were  raised,  plantations  were  made,  land  was 
acquired  in  all   directions  ;  but  the  house   became 
ruinous,  and  the  miserable  owner,  in  a  suit  of  coarse 
cloth  like  a  second-rate  farmer,  sneaked  about  his 
lands  with  a  sly  and  secret  smile,  avoiding  speech 
with  tenants  and  neighbours  alike,  and  eating  small 
and  penurious  meals   in  the   dusty   dining-room  in 
company   with  an   aged    and    drunken    bailiff,    the 
discovery  of  whose  constant  attempts  to  defraud  his 
master   of  a    few    shillings    were   the    delii^ht   and 
triumph  of  the  baronet's  life.      He  died  a  bachelor ; 
at  his  death  a  cousin,  a  grandson  of  the  first  baronet, 
succeeded,   and   found  that  whatever  else   he   had 
done,  the  miser  had  left  immense  accumulations  of 
money  behind  him.      This  gentleman  was   in   the 
army,   and    fought    at    Waterloo,    after    which    he 
imitated  the  example  of  his   class,  and  became  an 
unllinching   Tory    politician.     The    fourth    baronet 
was  a  singularly  inconspicuous  person  whom   I   can 
just  remember,  whose  principal   diversion   was   his 


no  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

kennel.  I  have  often  seen  him  when,  as  a  child,  I 
used  to  lunch  there  with  my  mother,  stand  through- 
out the  meal  in  absolute  silence,  sipping  a  glass  of 
sherry  on  the  hearthrug,  and  slowly  munching  a 
large  biscuit,  and,  before  we  withdrew,  producing 
from  his  pocket  the  envelopes  which  had  contained 
the  correspondence  of  the  morning,  and  filling  them 
with  bones,  pieces  of  fat,  fag-ends  of  joints,  to 
bestow  upon  the  dogs  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon. 
This  habit  I  considered,  as  a  child,  to  be  distinctly 
agreeable,  and  I  should  have  been  deeply  dis- 
appointed if  Sir  John  had  ever  failed  to  do  it. 

The  present  Sir  James  is  now  a  man  of  forty. 
He  was  at  Eton  and  Trinity,  and  for  a  short  time 
in  the  Guards.  He  married  the  daughter  of  a 
neighbouring  baronet,  and  at  the  age  of  thirty, 
when  his  father  died,  settled  down  to  the  congenial 
occupation  of  a  country  gentleman.  He  is,  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  he  had  a  large  landed  estate,  a  very 
wealthy  man.  I  imagine  he  has  at  least  ;^20,ooo  a 
year.  He  has  a  London  house,  to  which  Lady 
Staunton  goes  for  the  season,  but  Sir  James,  who 
makes  a  point  of  accompanying  her,  soon  finds  that 
business  necessitates  his  at  once  returning  to  the 
country  ;  and  I  am  not  sure  that  the  summer  months, 


SIR    JAMES  III 

which  he  spends  absolutely  alone,  are  not  the  most 
agreeable  part  of  the  year  for  him.  He  has  three 
stolid  and  healthy  children — two  boys  and  a  girl. 
He  takes  no  interest  whatever  in  politics,  religion, 
literature,  or  art.  He  takes  in  the  Standard  and  the 
Field.  He  hunts  a  little,  and  shoots  a  little,  but  does 
not  care  about  either.  He  spends  his  morning  and 
afternoon  in  pottering  about  the  estate.  In  the  even- 
ing he  writes  a  few  letters,  dines  well,  reads  the  paper 
and  goes  to  bed.  He  does  not  care  about  dining 
out ;  indeed  the  prospect  of  a  dinner-party  or  a  dance 
clouds  the  pleasure  of  the  day.  He  goes  to  church 
once  on  Sunday;  he  is  an  active  magistrate  ;  he  has, 
at  long  intervals,  two  or  three  friends  of  like  tastes 
to  stay  with  him,  who  accompany  him,  much  to 
his  dislike,  in  his  perambulations,  and  stand  about 
whistling,  or  staring  at  stacks  and  cattle,  while  he 
talks  to  the  bailiff.  But  he  is  a  kindly,  cheery,  gene- 
rous man,  with  a  good  head  for  business,  and  an 
idea  of  his  position.  He  is  absolutely  honourable 
and  straightforward,  and  faces  an  unpleasant  duty, 
when  he  has  made  up  his  mind  to  it,  with  entire  tran- 
quillity. No  mental  speculation  has  ever  come  in  his 
way ;  at  school  he  was  a  sound,  healthy  boy,  good 


112  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

at  games,  who  did  his  work  punctually,  and  was  of 
blameless  character.  He  made  no  particular  friends  ; 
sat  through  school  after  school,  under  various  sorts 
of  masters,  never  inattentive,  and  never  interested. 
He  had  a  preference  for  dull  and  sober  teachers, 
men  with  whom,  as  he  said,  "you  knew  where  you 
were ; "  a  stimulating  teacher  bewildered  him, — 
"always  talking  about  poetry  and  rot."  At  Cam- 
bridee  it  was  the  same.  He  rowed  in  his  Colleo^e 
boat  ;  he  passed  the  prescribed  examinations ;  he 
led  a  clean  healthy  decorous  life  ;  and  no  idea,  small 
or  great,  no  sense  of  beauty,  no  wonder  at  the 
scheme  of  things,  ever  entered  his  head.  If  by 
chance  he  ever  found  himself  in  the  company  of  an 
enthusiastic  undergraduate,  whose  mind  and  heart 
were  full  of  burning,  incomplete,  fantastic  thoughts, 
James  listened  politely  to  what  he  had  to  say, 
hazarded  no  statements,  and  said,  in  quiet  after-com- 
ment, "Gad,  how  that  chap  does  jaw  !  "  No  one 
ever  thought  him  stupid  ;  he  knew  what  was  going 
on  ;  he  was  sociable,  kind,  not  the  least  egotistical, 
and  far  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to  exhibit  the  least 
complacency  in  his  position  or  wealth — ^only  he  knew 
exactly  what  he  liked,  and  had  none  of  the  pathetic 


SIR    JAMES  113 

admiration  for  talent  that  is  sometimes  found  in  the 
unintellectual.  When  he  went  into  the  Guards  it 
was  just  the  same.  He  was  popular  and  respected, 
friendly  with  his  men,  perfectly  punctual,  capable 
and  respectable.  He  had  no  taste  for  wine  or 
gambling,  or  disreputable  courses.  He  admired 
nobody  and  nothing,  and  no  one  ever  obtained  the 
slightest  influence  over  him.  At  home  he  was 
perfectly  happy,  kind  to  his  sisters,  ready  to  do  any- 
thing he  was  asked,  and  to  join  in  anything  that  was 
going  on.  When  he  succeeded  to  the  estate,  he 
went  quietly  to  work  to  find  a  wife,  and  married  a 
pretty,  contented  girl,  with  the  same  notions  as  him- 
self. He  never  said  an  unkind  thing  to  her,  or  to 
any  of  his  family,  and  expressed  no  extravagant 
affection  for  any  one.  He  is  trustee  for  all  his  rela- 
tions, and  always  finds  time  to  look  after  their  affairs. 
He  is  always  ready  to  subscribe  to  any  good  object, 
and  had  contrived  never  to  squabble  with  an  angular 
ritualistic  clergyman,  who  thinks  him  a  devoted  son 
of  the  Church.  He  has  declined  several  invitations 
to  stand  for  Parliament,  and  has  no  desire  to  be 
elevated  to  the  Peerage.  He  will  probably  live  to 
a  green  old  age,  and  leave  an  immense  fortune.  I 
do  not  fancy  that  he  is  much  given  to  meditate 

H 


114  "I'HE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

about  his  latter  end ;  but  if  he  ever  lets  his  mind 
range  over  the  life  beyond  the  grave,  he  probably 
anticipates  vaguely  that,  under  somewhat  airy  con- 
ditions, he  will  continue  to  enjoy  the  consideration 
of  his  fellow-beings,  and  deserve  their  respect. 


19 

For  nearly  ten  years  after  we  came  to  Golden  End, 
the  parish  was  administered  by  an  elderly  clergy- 
man, who  had  already  been  over  twenty  years  in 
the  place.  He  was  little  known  outside  the  district 
at  all ;  I  doubt  if,  between  the  occasion  of  his  ap- 
pointment to  the  living  and  his  death,  his  name  ever 
appeared  in  the  papers.  The  Bishop  of  the  diocese 
knew  nothing  of  him  ;  if  his  name  was  mentioned  in 
clerical  society,  it  was  dismissed  again  with  some 
such  comment  as  "Ah,  poor  Woodward!  an  able 
man,  I  believe,  but  utterly  unpractical ; "  and  yet  I 
have  always  held  this  man  to  be  on  the  whole  one 
of  the  most  remarkable  people  I  have  ever  known. 

He  was  a  tall  thin  man,  with  a  slight  stoop.  He 
could  not  be  called  handsome,  but  his  face  had  a 
strange  dignity  and  power  ;  he  had  a  pallid  com- 
plexion, at  times  indeed  like  parchment  from  its 
bloodlessness,  and  dark  hair  which  remained  dark 
up  to  the  very  end.     His  eyebrows  were  habitually 


ii6  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

drawn  up,  giving  to  his  face  a  look  of  patient  en- 
durance ;  his  eyelids  drooped  over  his  eyes,  which 
gave  his  expression  a  certain  appearance  of  cynicism, 
but  when  he  opened  them  full,  and  turned  them 
upon  you,  they  were  dark,  passionate,  and  with  a 
peculiar  brightness.  His  lips  were  full  and  large, 
with  beautiful  curves,  but  slightly  compressed  as 
a  rule,  which  gave  a  sense  of  severity.  He  was 
clean  shaven,  and  always  very  carefully  dressed, 
but  in  somewhat  secular  style,  with  high  collars,  a 
frock-coat  and  waistcoat,  a  full  white  cambric  tie, 
and — I  shudder  to  relate  it  in  these  days — he  was 
seldom  to  be  seen  in  black  trousers,  but  wore  a 
shade  of  dark  grey.  If  you  had  substituted  a  black 
tie  for  a  white  one  you  would  have  had  an  ordinary 
English  layman  dressed  as  though  for  town — for  he 
always  wore  a  tall  hat.  He  often  rode  about  the 
parish,  when  he  wore  a  dark  grey  riding-suit  with 
gaiters.  I  do  not  think  he  ever  gave  his  clothes  a 
thought,  but  he  had  the  instincts  of  a  fine  gentle- 
man, and  loved  neatness  and  cleanliness.  He  had 
never  married,  but  his  house  was  administered  by 
an  elderly  sister — rather  a  grim,  majestic  personage, 
with  a  sharp  ironical  tongue,  and  no  great  indul- 
gence for  weakness.     Miss  Woodward  considered 


MR.    WOODWARD  117 

herself  an  Invalid,  and  only  appeared  in  fine 
weather,  driving  in  a  smart  little  open  carriage. 
They  were  people  of  considerable  wealth,  and  the 
rectory,  which  was  an  important  house  standing  in 
a  large  glebe,  had  two  gardeners  and  good  stables, 
and  was  furnished  within,  in  a  dignified  way,  with 
old  solid  furniture.  Mr.  Woodward  had  a  large 
library,  and  at  the  little  dinner-parties  that  he  gave, 
where  the  food  was  of  the  simplest,  the  plate  was 
ancient  and  abundant — old  silver  candlesticks  and 
salvers  in  profusion — and  a  row  of  family  pictures 
beamed  on  you  from  the  walls.  Mr.  Woodward 
used  to  say,  if  any  one  admired  any  particular  piece 
of  plate,  "Yes,  I  believe  it  is  good;  it  was  all  col- 
lected by  an  old  uncle  of  mine,  who  left  it  to  me 
with  his  blessing  for  my  lifetime.  Of  course  I 
don't  quite  approve  of  using  it — I  believe  I  ought 
not  even  to  have  two  coats — but  I  can't  sell  it,  and 
meantime  it  looks  very  nice  and  does  no  harm." 
The  living  was  a  wealthy  one,  but  it  was  soon  dis- 
covered that  Mr.  Woodward  spent  all  that  he  re- 
ceived on  that  head  in  the  parish.  He  did  not 
pauperise  idle  parishioners,  but  he  was  always 
ready  with  a  timely  gift  to  tide  an  honest  man  over 
a  difficulty.     He  liked  to  start  the  boys  in  life,  and 


ii8  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

would  give  a  girl  a  little  marriage  portion.  He 
paid  for  a  parish  nurse,  but  at  the  same  time  he 
insisted  on  almsgiving  as  a  duty.  **  I  don't  do 
these  things  to  save  you  the  trouble  of  giving,"  he 
would  say,  "  but  to  give  you  a  lead  ;  and  if  I  find 
that  the  offertories  go  down,  then  my  subscriptions 
will  go  down  too ; "  but  he  would  sometimes  say 
that  he  feared  he  was  making  things  difficult  for 
his  successor.  "  I  can't  help  that ;  if  he  is  a  good 
man  the  people  will  understand." 

Mr.  Woodward  was  a  great  politician,  and  used 
to  say  that  it  was  a  perpetual  temptation  to  him  to 
sit  over  the  papers  in  the  morning  instead  of  doing 
his  work.  But  the  result  was  that  he  always  had 
something  to  talk  about,  and  his  visits  were  en- 
joyed  by  the  least  spiritual  of  his  parishioners.  He 
was  of  course  eclectic  in  his  politics,  and  combined 
a  good  deal  of  radicalism  with  an  intense  love  and 
veneration  for  the  past.  He  restored  his  church 
with  infinite  care  and  taste,  and  was  for  ever 
beautifying  it  in  small  ways.  He  used  to  say  that 
there  were  two  kinds  of  church-goers — the  people 
who  liked  the  social  aspect  of  the  service,  who 
preferred  a  blaze  of  light,  hearty  singing,  and  the 
presence   of   a  large   number  of  people ;  but  that 


THE    CHURCH  119 

there  were  others  who  preferred  it  from  the  quiet 
and  devotional  side,  and  who  were  only  distracted 
from  the  main  object  of  the  service  by  the  presence 
of  alert  and  critical  persons.  Consequently  he 
had  a  little  transept  divided  from  the  body  of  the 
church  by  a  simple  screen,  and  kept  the  lights  low 
within  it.  The  transept  was  approached  by  a 
separate  door,  and  he  invited  people  who  could  not 
come  for  the  whole  service  to  slip  in  for  a  little  of 
it.  At  the  same  time  there  was  plenty  of  room  in 
the  church,  as  the  parish  is  not  thickly  populated, 
so  that  you  could  be  sure  of  finding  a  seat  in  any 
part  of  the  church  that  suited  your  mood.  He 
never  would  have  a  surpliced  choir ;  and  in  the 
morning  service,  nothing  was  sung  except  the 
canticles  and  hymns  ;  but  there  was  a  fine  organ 
built  at  his  expense,  and  he  offered  a  sufficiently 
large  salary  to  secure  an  organist  of  considerable 
taste  and  skill.  He  greatly  believed  in  music,  and 
part  of  the  organist's  duty  was  to  give  a  little 
recital  once  a  week,  which  was  generally  well 
attended.  He  himself  was  always  present  at  the 
choir  practices,  and  the  result  of  the  whole  was 
that  the  congregation  sang  well,  with  a  tone  and  a 
feeling  that   I   have  never  heard  in  places  where 


120  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

the  indigenous  materials  for  choral  music  were  so 
scanty. 

Mr.  Woodward  talked  a  good  deal  on  religious 
subjects,  but  with  an  ease  and  a  naturalness  which 
saved  his  hearers  from  any  feeling  of  awkwardness 
or  affectation.  I  have  never  heard  any  one  who 
seemed  to  live  so  naturally  in  the  seen  and  the 
unseen  together,  and  his  transitions  from  mundane 
to  religious  talk  were  made  with  such  simplicity 
that  his  hearers  felt  no  embarrassment  or  pain. 
After  all,  the  ethical  side  of  life  is  what  we  are 
all  interested  in — moreover,  Mr.  Woodward  had 
a  decidedly  magnetic  gift — that  gift  which,  if  it 
had  been  accompanied  with  more  fire  and  volu- 
bility, would  have  made  him  an  orator.  As  it  was, 
the  circle  to  whom  he  talked  felt  insensibly  in- 
terested in  what  he  spoke  of,  and  at  the  same 
time  there  was  such  a  transparent  simplicity  about 
the  man  that  no  one  could  have  called  him  affected. 
His  talk  it  would  be  impossible  to  recall ;  it  de- 
pended upon  all  sorts  of  subtle  and  delicate  effects 
of  personality.  Indeed,  I  remember  once  after 
an  evening  spent  in  his  company,  during  which 
he  had  talked  with  an  extraordinary  pathos  and 
emotion,    I    wrote    down   what    I    could    remember 


MR.    WOODWARD  121 

of  it.  I  look  at  it  now  and  wonder  what  the 
spell  was ;  it  seems  so  ordinary,  so  simple,  so, 
may  I  say,  platitudinal. 

Yet  I  may  mention  two  or  three  of  his  chance 
sayings.  I  found  him  one  day  in  his  study 
deeply  engrossed  in  a  book  which  I  saw  was 
the  Life  of  Darwin.  He  leapt  to  his  feet  to  greet 
me,  and  after  the  usual  courtesies  said,  "  What  a 
wonderful  book  this  is — it  is  from  end  to  end 
nothing  but  a  cry  for  the  Nicene  Creed !  The  man 
walks  along,  doing  his  duty  so  splendidly  and 
nobly,  with  such  single-heartedness  and  simplicity, 
and  just  misses  the  way  all  the  time  ;  the  gospel 
he  wanted  is  just  the  other  side  of  the  wall.  But 
he  must  know  now,  I  think.  Whenever  I  eo  to 
the  Abbey,  I  always  go  straight  to  his  grave,  and 
kneel  down  close  beside  it,  and  pray  that  his  eyes 
may  be  opened.  Very  foolish  and  wrong,  I  dare 
say,  but  I   can't  help  it ! " 

Another  day  he  found  me  working  at  a  little 
pedigree  of  my  father's  simple  ancestors.  I  had 
hunted  their  names  up  in  an  old  register,  and  there 
was  quite  a  line  of  simple  persons  to  record.  He 
looked  over  my  shoulder  at  the  sheet  while  I  told 
him  what  it  was.      "Dear  old  folk!"  he  said,    "I 


122  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

hope  you  say  a  prayer  now  and  then  for  some  of 
them  ;  they  belong  to  you  and  you  to  them,  but 
I  dare  say  they  were  sad  Socinians,  many  of  them 
(laughing.)  Well,  that's  all  over  now.  I  wonder 
what  they  do  with  themselves  over  there  ?  " 

Mr.  Woodward  was  of  course  adored  by  the 
people  of  the  village.  In  his  trim  garden  lived 
a  couple  of  pea-fowl — gruff  and  selfish  birds,  but 
very  beautiful  to  look  at.  Mr.  Woodward  had  a 
singular  delight  in  watching  the  old  peacock  trail 
his  glories  in  the  sun.  They  roosted  in  a  tree 
that  overhung  the  road.  There  came  to  stay  in 
the  next  village  a  sailor,  a  ne'er-do-weel,  who 
used  to  hang  about  with  a  gun.  One  evening 
Mr.  Woodward  heard  a  shot  fired  in  the  lane, 
went  out  of  his  study,  and  found  that  the  sailor 
had  shot  the  peacock,  who  was  lying  on  his  back 
in  the  road,  feebly  poking  out  his  claws,  while 
the  aggressor  was  pulling  the  feathers  from  his 
tail.  Mr.  Woodward  was  extraordinarily  moved. 
The  man  caught  in  the  act  looked  confused  and 
bewildered.  "  Why  did  you  shoot  my  poor  old 
bird  ? "  said  Mr.  Woodward.  The  sailor  in 
apology  said  he  thought  it  was  a  pheasant.  Mr. 
Woodward,    on    the    verge    of    tears,    carried    the 


THE    PEACOCK  123 

helpless  fowl  into  the  garden,  but  finding  it  was 
already  dead,  interred  it  with  his  own  hands,  told 
his  sister  at  dinner  what  had  happened,  and  said 
no  more. 

But  the  story  spread,  and  four  stalwart  young 
parishioners  of  Mr.  Woodward's  vowed  vengeance, 
caught  the  luckless  sailor  in  a  lane,  broke  his 
gun,  and  put  him  in  the  village  pond,  from  which 
he  emerged  a  lamentable  sight,  cursing  and  splut- 
tering ;  the  process  was  sternly  repeated,  and  not 
until  he  handed  over  all  his  available  cash  for 
the  purpose  of  replacing  the  bird  did  his  judges 
desist.  Another  peacock  was  bought  and  pre- 
sented to  Mr.  Woodward,  the  offender  being 
obliged  to  make  the  presentation  himself  with 
an  abject  apology,  being  frankly  told  that  the 
slightest  deviation  from  the  programme  would 
mean  another  lustral  washing. 

The  above  story  testifies  to  the  sort  of  position 
which  Mr.  Woodward  held  in  his  parish  ;  and  what 
is  the  most  remarkable  part  of  it,  indicates  the 
esteem  with  which  he  was  regarded  by  the  most 
difficult  members  of  a  congregation  to  conciliate — 
the  young  men.  But  then  Mr.  Woodward  was 
at  ease  with  the  young  men.      He  had   talked  to 


124  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

them  as  boys,  with  a  grave  politeness  which  many 
people  hold  to  be  unnecessary  in  the  case  of 
the  young.  He  had  encouraged  them  to  come 
to  him  in  all  sorts  of  little  troubles.  The  men 
who  had  resented  the  loss  of  Mr.  Woodward's 
peacock  knew  him  as  an  intimate  and  honoured 
family  friend  ;  he  had  tided  one  over  a  small  money 
difficulty,  and  smoothed  the  path  of  an  ambition 
for  another.  He  had  claimed  no  sacerdotal  riehts 
over  the  liberties  of  his  people,  but  such  allegiance 
as  he  had  won  was  the  allegiance  that  always 
waits  upon  sympathy  and  goodwill ;  and  further, 
he  was  shrewd  and  practical  in  small  concerns, 
and  had  the  great  gift  of  foreseeing  contingencies. 
He  never  forgot  the  clerical  character,  but  he 
made  it  unobtrusive,  kept  it  waiting  round  the 
corner,  and  it  was  always  there  when  it  was 
wanted. 

I  was  present  once  at  an  interesting  conversa- 
tion between  Mr.  Woodward  and  a  distinguished 
university  professor,  who  by  some  accident  was 
staying  with  myself  The  professor  had  expressed 
himself  as  much  interested  in  the  conditions  of  rural 
life,  and  was  lamenting  to  me  the  dissidence  which 
he  thought  was  growing  up    between   the   clergy 


THE    PROFESSOR  125 

and  their  flocks.  I  told  him  about  Mr.  Wood- 
ward, and  took  him  to  tea.  The  professor  with 
a  courteous  frankness  attacked  Mr.  Woodward 
on  the  same  point.  He  said  that  he  believed 
that  the  raisin^r  of  theoloo^ical  and  clerical  standards 
had  had  the  effect  of  turning  the  clergy  into  a  class, 
enthusiastic,  no  doubt,  but  interested  in  a  small 
circle  of  things  to  which  they  attached  extreme 
importance,  though  they  were  mostly  traditional 
or  antiquarian.  He  said  that  they  were  losing 
their  hold  on  English  life,  and  inclined  not  so 
much  to  uphold  a  scrupulous  standard  of  conduct, 
as  to  enforce  a  preoccupation  in  doctrinal  and 
liturgical  questions,  interesting  enough,  but  of  no 
practical  importance.  Mr.  Woodward  did  not  con- 
tradict him  ;  the  professor,  warming  to  his  work,  said 
that  the  ordinary  village  sermon  was  of  a  futile 
kind,  and  possessed  no  shrewdness  or  definiteness 
as  a  rule.  Mr.  Woodward  asked  him  to  expand 
the  idea — what  ought  the  clergy  to  preach  about  ? 
"Well,"  said  the  professor,  "they  ought  to  touch 
on  politics  —  not  party  politics,  of  course,  but 
social  measures,  historical  developments  and  so 
forth.  I  was  present,"  he  went  on,  "some  years 
ago  when,  in  a  country  town,  the  Bishop  of  the 


126  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

diocese  preached  a  sermon  at  the  parish  church, 
the  week  after  the  French  had  been  defeated 
at  Sedan,  and  the  Bishop  made  not  the  slightest 
allusion  to  the  event,  though  it  was  the  dominant 
idea  in  the  minds  of  the  sensible  members  of  the 
congregation  ;  the  clergy  ought  not  only  to  preach 
politics — they  ought  to  talk  politics — they  ought 
to  show  that  they  have  the  same  interests  as  their 
people." 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Mr.  Woodward,  leaning  for- 
ward, "  I  agree  with  much  that  you  say,  Pro- 
fessor— very  much  ;  but  you  look  at  things  in  a 
different  perspective.  We  don't  think  much  about 
politics  here  in  the  country — home  politics  a  little, 
but  foreign  politics  not  at  all.  When  we  hear  of 
rumours  of  wars  we  are  not  particularly  troubled  ; " 
(with  a  smile)  "and  when  I  have  to  try  and  en- 
courage an  old  bedridden  woman  who  is  very 
much  bewildered  with  this  world,  and  has  no 
imagination  left  to  deal  with  the  next — and  who 
is  sadly  afraid  of  her  long  journey  in  the  dark — 
when  I  have  to  try  and  argue  with  a  naughty 
boy  who  has  got  some  poor  girl  into  trouble,  and 
doesn't  feel  in  his  heart  that  he  has  done  a  selfish 
or   a   brutal    thing,  am    I    to  talk   to   them   about 


THE    PROFESSOR  127 

the  battle  of  Sedan,  or  even  about  the  reform  of 
the  House  of  Lords?" 

The  professor  smiled  grimly,  but  perhaps  a  little 
foolishly,  and  did  not  take  up  the  challenge.  But 
Mr.  Woodward  said  to  me  a  few  days  afterwards  : 
"  I  was  very  much  interested  in  your  friend  the 
professor — a  most  amiable,  and,  I  should  think, 
unselfish  person.  How  good  of  him  to  interest 
himself  in  the  parish  clergy!  But  you  know, 
my  dear  boy,  the  intellectual  atmosphere  is  a 
difficult  one  to  live  in — a  man  needs  some  very 
human  trial  of  his  own  to  keep  him  humble  and 
sane.  I  expect  the  professor  wants  a  long  illness ! " 
(smiling)  "  No,  I  dare  say  he  is  very  good  in  his 
own  place,  and  does  good  work  for  Christ,  but  he 
is  a  man  clothed  in  soft  raiment  in  these  wilds,  and 
you  and  I  must  do  all  we  can  to  prevent  him  from 
rewriting  the  Lord's  Prayer.  I  am  afraid  he  thinks 
there  is  a  sad  absence  of  the  intellectual  element  in 
it.  It  must  be  very  distressing  to  him  to  think  how 
often  it  is  used  ;  and  yet  there  is  not  an  allusion  to 
politics  in  it — not  even  to  comprehensive  measures 
of  social  reform." 

Mr.  Woodward's  sermons  were  always  a  pleasure 
to  me.     He  told   me   once   that   he   had    a   great 


128  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

dislike  to  using  conventional  religious  language ; 
and  thus,  though  he  was  in  belief  something  of  a 
High  Churchman,  he  was  so  careful  to  avoid 
catch- words  or  party  formulas  that  few  people 
suspected  how  high  the  doctrine  was.  I  took  an 
elderly  evangelical  aunt  to  church  once,  when  Mr. 
Woodward  preached  a  sermon  on  baptismal  re- 
generation of  rather  an  advanced  type.  I  shuddered 
to  think  of  the  denunciations  which  I  anticipated 
after  church ;  indeed,  I  should  not  have  been  sur- 
prised if  my  aunt  had  gathered  up  her  books — 
she  was  a  masculine  personage — and  swept  out  of 
the  building.  But  on  the  contrary,  she  listened 
intently,  rather  moist-eyed,  I  thought,  to  the  dis- 
course, and  afterwards  spoke  to  me  with  extreme 
emphasis  of  it  as  a  real  gospel  sermon.  Mr. 
Woodward  wrote  his  sermons,  but  often  I  think 
departed  from  the  text.  He  discoursed  with  a 
simple  tranquillity  of  manner  that  made  each 
hearer  feel  as  if  he  was  alone  with  him.  His 
allusions  to  local  events  were  thrilling  in  their 
directness  and  pathos  ;  and  in  passing,  I  may  say 
that  he  was  the  only  man  I  ever  heard  who  made 
the  giving  out  of  notices,  both  in  manner  and 
matter,   into   a    fine    art.     On    Christmas    Day  he 


THE    CHRISTMAS    SERMON  129 

used  to  speak  about  the  events  of  the  year ;  one 
winter  there  was  a  bad  epidemic  of  diphtheria 
in  the  village,  and  several  children  died.  The 
shepherd  on  one  of  the  farms,  a  somewhat  gruff 
and  unsociable  character,  lost  two  little  children 
on  Christmas  Eve.  Mr.  Woodward,  unknown  to 
me  at  the  time,  had  spent  the  evening  with  the 
unhappy  man,  who  was  almost  beside  himself  with 
grief. 

In  the  sermon  he  began  quite  simply,  describ- 
ing the  scene  of  the  first  Christmas  Eve  in  a  few 
picturesque  words.  Then  he  quoted  Christina 
Rossetti's  Christmas  Carol — 

"  In  the  bleak  mid-winter 
Wintry  winds  made  moan," 

dwelling  on  the  exquisite  words  in  a  way  which 
brought  the  tears  to  my  eyes.  When  he  came  to 
the  lines  describing  the  gifts  made  to  Christ — 

"  If  I  were  a  shepherd 
I  would  bring  a  lamb," 

he  stopped  dead  for  some  seconds.      I    feel   sure 

that  he  had  not  thought  of  the  application  before. 

Then  he  looked  down  the  church  and  said — 

"  I  spent  a  long  time  yesterday  in   the  house 

I 


130  THE    HOUSE    OP    QUIET 

of  one  who  follows  the  calling  of  a  shepherd 
among  us.  ...  He  has  given  two  lambs  to 
Christ." 

There  was  an  uncontrollable  throb  of  emotion 
in  the  large  congregation,  and  I  confess  that  the 
tears  filled  my  eyes.     Mr.  Woodward  went  on — 

"Yes,  it  has  pleased  God  to  lead  him  through 
deep  waters ;  but  I  do  not  think  that  he  will 
altogether  withhold  from  Him  something  of  his 
Christmas  joy.  He  knows  that  they  are  safe  with 
Christ — safe  with  Christ,  and  waiting  for  him 
there — and  that  will  be  more  and  more  of  a  joy, 
and  less  and  less  of  a  sorrow  as  the  years  go 
on,  till  God  restores  him  the  dear  children  He 
has  taken  from  him  now.  We  must  not  forget 
him  in  our  prayers." 

Then  after  a  pause  he  resumed.  There  was 
no  rhetoric  or  oratory  about  it ;  but  I  have  never 
in  my  life  heard  anything  so  absolutely  affecting 
and  moving — any  word  which  seemed  to  go  so 
straight  from  heart  to  heart ;  it  was  the  genius  of 
humanity. 

A  few  months  after  this  Mr.  Woodward  died, 
as  he  always  wished  to  die,  quite  suddenly, 
in    his  chair.     He  had  often   said   to  me  that  he 


MR.    WOODWARD  131 

did  hope  he  wouldn't  die  in  bed,  with  bed-clothes 
tucked  under  his  chin,  and  medicine  bottles  by 
him  ;  he  said  he  was  sure  he  would  not  make  an 
edifying  end  under  the  circumstances.  His  heart 
had  long  been  weak ;  and  he  was  found  sitting 
with  his  head  on  his  breast  as  though  asleep, 
smiling  to  himself.  In  one  hand  his  pen  was 
still  clasped.  I  have  never  seen  such  heartfelt 
grief  as  was  shown  at  his  funeral.  His  sister 
did  not  survive  him  a  month.  The  week  after 
her  death  I  walked  up  to  the  rectory,  and  found 
the  house  being  dismantled.  Mr.  Woodward's 
books  were  being  packed  into  deal  cases  ;  the 
study  was  already  a  dusty,  awkward  room.  It 
was  strange  to  think  of  the  sudden  break-up  of 
that  centre  of  beautiful  life  and  high  example. 
All  over  and  done !  Yet  not  all ;  there  are  many 
grateful  hearts  who  do  not  forget  Mr.  Woodward  ; 
and  what  he  would  have  thought  and  what  he 
would  have  said  are  still  the  natural  guide  for 
conduct  in  a  dozen  simple  households.  If  death 
must  come,  it  was  so  that  he  would  have  wished 
it ;  and  Mr.  Woodward  could  be  called  happy  in 
life  and  death  perhaps  more  than  any  other  man 
I  have  known. 


20 

Who  was  to  be  Mr.  Woodward's  successor  ?  For 
some  weeks  we  had  lived  in  a  state  of  agitated 
expectancy.  One  morning,  soon  after  breakfast,  a 
card  was  brought  to  me — The  Rev.  Cyril  Cuthbert. 
I  went  down  to  the  drawing-room  and  found  my 
mother  talking  to  a  young  clergyman,  who  rose  at 
my  entrance,  and  informed  me  that  he  had  been 
offered  the  living,  and  that  he  had  ventured  to  call 
and  consult  me,  adding  that  he  had  been  told  I  was 
all-powerful  in  the  parish.  I  was  distinctly  pre- 
possessed by  his  appearance,  and  perhaps  by  his 
appreciation,  however  exaggerated,  of  my  influence  ; 
he  was  a  small  man  with  thin  features,  but  bronzed 
and  active ;  his  hair  was  parted  in  the  middle  and 
lay  in  wiry  waves  on  each  side.  He  had  small, 
almost  feminine,  hands  and  feet,  and  rather  a  delicate 
walk.  He  was  entirely  self-possessed,  very  genial 
in  talk,  with  a  pleasant  laugh  ;  at  the  same  time 
he  gave  me  an  impression  of  strength.     He  was 


MR.    CUTHBERT  133 

dressed  in  very  old  and  shabby  clothes,  of  decid- 
edly clerical  cut,  but  his  hat  and  coat  were  almost 
green  from  exposure  to  weather.  Yet  he  was  ob- 
viously a  gentleman.  I  gathered  that  he  was  the 
son  of  a  country  squire,  that  he  had  been  at  a  public 
school  and  Oxford,  and  that  he  had  been  for  some 
years  a  curate  in  a  large  manufacturing  town.  As 
we  talked  my  impressions  became  more  definite ; 
the  muscles  of  the  jaw  were  strongly  developed,  and 
I  began  to  fancy  that  the  genial  manner  concealed 
a  considerable  amount  of  self-will.  He  had  the 
eye  which  I  have  been  led  to  associate  with  the 
fanatic,  of  a  certain  cold  blue,  shallow  and  impene- 
trable, which  does  not  let  you  far  into  the  soul,  but 
meets  you  with  a  bright  and  unshrinking  gaze. 

At  his  request  I  accompanied  him  to  church  and 
vicarage.  At  the  latter,  he  said  to  me  frankly  that 
he  was  a  poor  man,  and  that  he  would  not  be  able  to 
keep  it  up  in  the  same  style — "  Indeed,"  he  said 
with  a  smile,  **  I  don't  think  it  would  be  right  to  do 
so."  I  said  that  I  didn't  think  it  very  material,  but 
that  as  a  matter  of  fact  I  thought  that  the  perfection 
of  Mr.  Woodward's  arrancrements  had  had  a  human- 
ising  influence  in  the  place.  At  the  church  he  was 
pleased  at  the  neatness  and  general  air  of  use  that 


134  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

the  building  had ;  but  he  looked  with  disfavour  at 
the  simple  arrangements  of  the  chancel.  I  noticed 
that  he  bowed  and  murmured  a  few  words  of 
prayer  when  he  entered  the  building.  When 
we  had  examined  the  church  he  said  to  me,  "To 

speak  frankly,  Mr, , — I  don't  know  what  your 

views  are, — but  what  is  the  church  tone  of  this 
place  like."*"  I  said  that  I  hardly  knew  how  to 
describe  it — the  church  certainly  played  a  large 
part  in  the  lives  of  the  parishioners ;  but  that 
I  supposed  that  Mr.  Woodward  would  perhaps  be 
called  old-fashioned.  "  Yes,  indeed,"  sighed  Mr. 
Cuthbert,  looking  wearily  round  and  shrugging  his 
shoulders.  "The  altar  indeed  is  distinctly  dis- 
honouring to  the  Blessed  Sacrament — no  attempt 
at  Catholic  practice  or  tradition.  There  is  not,  I 
see,  even  a  second  altar  in  the  church ;  but,  please 
God,  if  He  sends  me  here  we  will  change  all  that." 
Before  we  left  the  church  he  fell  on  his  knees  and 
prayed  with  absolute  self-absorption. 

When  we  got  outside  he  said  to  me  :  "  May  I  tell 
you  something  ?     I  have  just  returned  from  a  visit 

to  a  friend   of  mine,  a   priest  at   A ;    he  has 

got  everything — simply  everything ;  he  is  a  noble 
fellow — if  I  could  but  hope  to  imitate  him." 


MR.    CUTHBERT  135 

A was,  I  knew,  a  great  railway  dep6t,  and 

thinking  that  Mr.  Cuthbert  did  not  fully  understand 
how  very  rural  a  parish  we  were,  I  said,  "  I  am 
afraid  there  is  not  very  much  scope  here  for  great 
activity.  We  have  a  reading-room  and  a  club,  but 
it  has  never  been  a  great  success — the  people  won't 
turn  out  in  the  eveninofs." 

"Reading-rooms  and  clubs,"  said  Mr.  Cuthbert 
in  high  disdain  ;  "  I  did  not  mean  that  kind  of  thing 
at  all — I  was  thinking  of  things  much  nearer  the 
heart  of  the  people.  Herries  has  incense  and  lights, 
the  eucharistic  vestments,  he  reserves  the  sacrament 
— you  may  see  a  dozen  people  kneeling  before  the 
tabernacle  whenever  you  enter  the  church — he  has 
often  said  to  me  that  he  doesn't  know  how  he  could 
keep  hope  alive  in  his  heart  in  the  midst  of  such  vice 
and  sin,  if  it  were  not  for  the  thought  of  the  Blessed 
Presence,  in  the  midst  of  it,  in  the  quiet  church.  He 
has  a  sisterhood  in  his  parish  too  under  a  very 
strict  rule.  They  never  leave  the  convent,  and 
spend  whole  days  in  intercession.  The  sacrament 
has  been  reserved  there  for  fifteen  years.  Then 
confession  is  urged  plainly  upon  all,  and  it  is  a  sight 
to  make  one  thrill  with  joy  to  see  the  great  rough 
navvies  bending  before  Herries  as  he  sits  in  his  em- 


136  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

broidered  stole,  they  telling  him  the  secrets  of  their 
hearts,  and  he  bringing  them  nearer  to  the  joy  of 
their  Lord.  Some  of  the  workmen  in  the  parish 
are  the  most  frequent  at  confession.  Oh !  he  is 
a  noble  fellow ;  he  tells  me  he  has  no  time  for 
visiting — positively  no  time  at  all.  His  whole  day 
is  spent  in  deepening  the  devotional  life — the  hours 
are  recited  in  the  church — he  gives  up  ten  hours 
every  week  to  the  direction  of  penitents,  and  he  must 
spend,  I  should  say,  two  hours  a  day  at  his  prie- 
dieu.  He  says  he  could  not  have  strength  for  his 
work  if  he  did  not.  His  sermons  are  beautiful ;  he 
speaks  from  the  heart  without  preparation.  He 
says  he  has  learnt  to  trust  the  Spirit,  and  just  says 
what  is  given  him  to  say. 

"  Then  he  is  devoted  to  his  choristers,  and  they 
to  him  ;  it  is  a  privilege  to  see  him  surrounded  by 
them  in  their  little  cassocks  while  he  leads  them  in 
a  simple  meditation.  And  he  is  a  man  of  a  deeply 
tender  spirit — I  have  seen  him,  dining  with  his 
curates,  burst  into  tears  at  the  mere  mention  of  the 
name  of  the  dear  Mother  of  Christ.  I  ought  not  to 
trouble  you  with  all  this — I  am  too  enthusiastic! 
But  the  sight  of  him  has  put  it  into  my  heart  more 
than  anything  else  I  have  ever  known  to  try  and 


MR.    CUTHBERT  137 

build  up  a  really  Catholic  centre,  which  might  do 
something  to  leaven  the  heavy  Protestantism  which 
is  the  curse  of  England.  One  more  thing  which 
especially  struck  me ;  it  moved  me  to  tears  to 
hear  one  of  his  great  rough  fellows — a  shunter,  I 
believe,  who  is  often  overthrown  by  the  demon  of 
strong  drink — talk  so  simply  and  faithfully  of  the 
Holy  Mass  :  what  rich  associations  that  word  has ! 
Nothing  but  eternity  will  ever  reveal  the  terrible 
loss  which  the  disuse  of  that  splendid  word  has 
inflicted  on  our  unhappy  England." 

I  was  too  much  bewildered  by  this  statement  to 
make  any  adequate  reply,  but  said  to  console  him 
that  I  thought  the  parish  was  wonderfully  good, 
and  prepared  to  look  upon  the  clergyman  as  a 
friend.  "Yes,"  said  Mr.  Cuthbert,  "that  is  all 
very  well  for  a  beginning,  but  it  must  be  something 
more  than  that.  They  must  revere  him  as  steward 
of  the  mysteries  of  God — they  must  be  ready  to 
open  their  inmost  heart  to  him  ;  they  must  come  to 
recognise  that  it  is  through  him,  as  a  consecrated 
priest  of  Christ,  that  the  highest  spiritual  blessings 
can  reach  them  :  that  he  alone  can  confer  upon 
them  the  absolution  which  can  set  them  free  from 
the  guilt  of  sin." 


138  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

I  felt  that  I  ought  not  to  let  Mr.  Cuthbert  think 
that  I  was  altogether  of  the  same  mind  with  him  in 
these  matters  and  so  I  said:  "Well,  you  must  re- 
member that  all  this  is  unfamiliar  here  ;  Mr.  Wood- 
ward did  not  approve  of  confession — he  held  that 
habitual  confession  was  weakening  to  the  moral 
nature,  and  encouraged  the  most  hysterical  kind  of 
egotism — though  no  one  was  more  ready  to  listen 
to  any  one's  troubles  and  to  give  the  most  loving 
advice  in  real  difficulties.  But  as  to  the  point  about 
absolution,  I  think  he  felt,  and  I  should  agree  with 
him,  that  God  only  can  forgive  sin,  and  that  the 
clergy  are  merely  the  human  interpreters  of  that 
forgiveness  ;  it  is  so  much  more  easy  to  apprehend 
a  great  moral  principle  like  the  forgiveness  of  sin 
from  another  human  being  than  to  arrive  at  it  in 
the  silence  of  one's  own  troubled  heart." 

Mr.  Cuthbert  smiled,  not  very  pleasantly,  and 
said,  "  I  had  hoped  you  would  have  shared  my 
views  more  warmly — it  is  a  disappointment!  seri- 
ously, the  power  to  bind  and  loose  conferred  on 
the  Apostles  by  Christ  Himself — does  that  mean 
nothing  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  I  said,  "  the  clergy  are  the  ac- 
credited   ministers    in  the  matter,    of  course,    and 


MRCUTHBERT  139 

they  have  a  sacred  charge,  but  as  to  powers  con- 
ferred upon  the  Apostles,  it  seems  that  other 
powers  were  conferred  on  His  followers  which  they 
no  longer  possess — they  were  to  drink  poison  with 
impunity,  handle  venomous  snakes,  and  even  to 
heal  the  sick," 

•'  Purely  local  and  temporary  provisions,"  said 
Mr.  Cuthbert,  "which  we  have  no  doubt  forfeited 
— if  indeed  we  have  forfeited  them — by  want  of 
faith.    The  other  was  a  gift  for  time  and  eternity." 

"  I  don't  remember,"  I  said,  "  that  any  such 
distinction  was  laid  down  in  the  Gospel — but  in 
any  case  you  would  not  maintain,  would  you,  that 
they  possessed  the  power  propria  motu  ?  To  push 
it  to  extremes,  that  if  a  man  was  absolved  by  a 
priest,  God's  forgiveness  was  bound  to  follow,  even 
if  the  priest  were  deceived  as  to  the  reality  of  the 
penitence  which  claimed  forgiveness." 

Mr.  Cuthbert  frowned  and  said,  "  To  me  it  is 
not  a  question  of  theorising.  It  is  a  purely  prac- 
tical matter.  I  look  upon  it  in  this  way — if  a  man 
is  absolved  by  a  priest,  he  is  sure  he  is  forgiven  ; 
if  he  is  not,  he  cannot  be  sure  of  forgiveness." 

"I  should  hold,"  I  said,  "that  it  was  purely  a 
matter  of  inner  penitence.     But  I  did  not  mean  to 


I40  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

entangle  you  in  a  theological  argument — and  I 
hope  we  are  at  one  on  essential  matters." 

As  we  walked  back  I  pointed  out  to  him  some 
of  my  favourite  views — the  long  back  of  the  dis- 
tant downs ;  the  dark  forest  tract  that  closed  the 
northern  horizon — but  he  looked  with  courteous 
indifference  :  his  heart  was  full  of  Catholic  tradition. 

We  heard  a  few  days  after  that  he  had  accepted 
the  living,  and  we  asked  him  to  come  and  stay 
with  us  while  he  was  getting  into  the  vicarage, 
which  he  was  furnishing  with  austere  severity. 
Mr.  Woodward's  pleasant  dark  study  became  a 
somewhat  grim  library,  with  books  in  deal  shelves, 
carpeted  with  matting  and  with  a  large  deal  table 
to  work  at.  Mr.  Cuthbert  dwelt  much  on  the 
thought  of  sitting  there  in  a  cassock  with  a  tippet, 
but  I  do  not  think  he  had  any  of  the  instincts  of  a 
student — it  was  rather  the  mise-en-schie  that  pleased 
him.  A  bedroom  became  an  oratory,  with  a  large 
ivory  crucifix.  The  dining-room  he  called  his  re- 
fectory, and  he  had  a  scheme  at  one  time  of  hav- 
ing two  young  men  to  do  the  housework  and 
cooking,  which  fortunately  fell  through,  though 
they  were  to  have  had  cassocks  with  cord-girdles, 
and  to  have  been  called  lay  brothers.     On  the  other 


CATHOLIC    TRADITION  141 

hand  he  was  a  very  pleasant  visitor,  as  long  as 
theological  discussions  were  avoided.  He  was 
bright,  gay,  outwardly  sympathetic,  full  of  a  certain 
kind  of  humour,  and  with  all  the  ways  of  a  fine 
gentleman.  The  more  I  disagreed  with  him  the 
more  I  liked  him  personally. 

One  evening  after  dinner,  as  we  sat  smoking — 
he  was  a  great  smoker — we  had  a  rather  serious 
discussion.  I  said  to  him  that  I  really  should  like  to 
understand  what  his  theory  of  church  work  was. 

"  It  is  all  summed  up  in  two  phrases,"  said  Mr. 
Cuthbert.  "  Catholic  practice — Catholic  tradition. 
I  hold  that  the  Reformation  inflicted  a  grievous 
blow  upon  this  country.  To  break  with  Rome 
was  almost  inevitable,  I  admit,  because  of  the 
corruption  of  doctrine  that  was  beginning ;  but  we 
need  not  have  thrown  over  all  manner  of  high 
and  holy  ways  and  traditions,  solemn  accessories 
of  worship,  tender  assistances  to  devotion,  any 
more  than  the  Puritans  were  bound  to  break 
statues  and  damage  stained  glass  windows." 

"Quite  so,"  I  said;  "but  where  does  this 
Catholic  tradition  come  from  ? " 

"From  the  Primitive  Church,"  said  Mr.  Cuth- 
bert.    "  As  far  back  as  we  can  trace  the  history  of 


142  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

church  practice  we  find  these,  or  many  of  these, 
exquisite  ceremonies,  which  I  for  one  think  it  a 
solemn  duty  to  try  and  restore." 

"But  after  all,"  I  said,  "they  are  of  human 
origin,  are  they  not  ?  You  would  not  say  that  they 
have  a  divine  sanction  ?  " 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Cuthbert,  "their  sanction  is 
practically  divine.  We  read  that  in  the  last  days 
spent  by  our  Lord  in  His  glorified  nature  on 
the  earth,  He  'spake  to  them  of  the  things  con- 
cerning the  Kingdom  of  God.'  I  myself  think 
it  only  reasonable  to  suppose  that  He  was  laying 
down  the  precise  ceremonial  that  He  wished  should 
attend  the  worship  of  His  Kingdom.  I  do  not 
think  that  extravagant." 

"But,"  I  said,  "was  not  the  whole  tenor  of 
His  teaching  against  such  ceremonial  precision  ? 
Did  He  not  for  His  Sacraments  choose  the  simplest 
and  humblest  actions  of  daily  life — eating  and  drink- 
ing,-* Was  He  not  always  finding  fault  with  the 
Pharisees  for  forgetting  spiritual  truth  in  their  zeal 
for  tradition  and  practice  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Cuthbert,  '' ior  forgetting  the 
weightier  matters  of  the  law  ;  but  He  approved  of 
their    ceremonial.      He    said :    '  These    ought    ye 


THE    CHURCH  143 

to  have  done,  and  not  to  have  left  the  other 
undone.' " 

"I  believe  myself,"  I  said,  "that  He  felt  they 
should  have  obeyed  their  conscience  in  the  matter ; 
but  surely  the  whole  of  the  teaching  of  the  Gospel 
is  to  loose  human  beings  from  the  tyranny  of  detail, 
and  to  teach  them  to  live  a  simple  life  on  great 
principles?" 

"  I  cannot  agree,"  said  Mr.  Cuthbert.  "  The 
instinct  for  reverence,  for  the  reverent  and  seemly 
expression  of  spiritual  feeling,  for  the  symbolic 
representation  of  divine  truths  is  a  depreciated  one, 
but  a  true  one ;  and  this  instinct  He  graciously 
defined,  fortified,  and  consecrated  ;  and  I  believe  that 
the  Church  was  following  the  true  guidance  of  the 
Spirit  in  the  matter,  when  it  slowly  built  up  the  grand 
and  massive  fabric  of  Catholic  practice  and  tradition." 

"  But,"  I  said,  "  who  are  the  Church  ?  There 
are  a  great  many  people  who  feel  the  exact  opposite 
of  what  you  maintain — and  true  Christians  too." 

"They  are  grievously  mistaken,"  said  Mr. 
Cuthbert,  "and  suffer  an  irreparable  loss." 

"But  who  is  to  decide?"  I  said,  a  little  nettled. 

"  A  General  Oecumenical  Council  would  be 
competent  to  do  so,"  said  Mr.   Cuthbert. 


144  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

"  Do  you  mean  of  the  Anglican  Communion  ? " 
I  said. 

"  Oh  dear,  no,"  said  Mr.  Cuthbert.  "  The  An- 
glican Communion,  indeed !  No  ;  such  a  Council 
must  have  representatives  of  all  Churches  who  have 
received  and  maintain  the  Divine  succession." 

"But,"  said  I,  "you  must  know  that  the  thing 
is  impossible.  Who  could  summon  such  a  Council, 
and  who  would  attend  it  ?  " 

"That  is  not  my  business,"  said  Mr.  Cuthbert; 
"  I  do  not  want  any  such  Council.  I  am  sure  of 
my  position  ;  it  is  only  you  and  others  who  wish 
to  sacrifice  the  most  exquisite  part  of  Christian  life 
who  need  such  a  solution.  I  am  content  with  what 
I  know ;  and  humbly  and  faithfully  I  shall  attempt 
as  far  as  I  can  to  follow  the  dictates  of  my  con- 
science in  the  matter,  and  to  endeavour  to  bring  it 
home  to  the  consciences  of  my  flock." 

I  felt  I  could  not  carry  the  argument  further 
without  loss  of  temper ;  but  it  was  surprising  to 
me  how  I  continued  to  like,  and  even  to  respect, 
the  man. 

He  has  not,  it  must  be  confessed,  obtained 
any  great  hold  on  the  parish.  Mr.  Woodward's 
quiet,  delicate,  fatherly  work  has  gone ;    but  Mr. 


MR.    CUTHBERT  145 

Cuthbert  has  a  few  women  who  attend  confession, 
and  he  is  content.  He  has  adorned  the  church 
according  to  his  views,  and  the  congregation  think 
it  rather  pretty.  They  do  not  dislike  his  sermons, 
though  they  do  not  understand  them  ;  and  as  for 
his  vestments,  they  regard  them  with  a  mild  and 
somewhat  bewildered  interest.  They  like  to  see 
Mr.  Cuthbert,  he  is  so  pleasant  and  good-humoured. 
He  is  assiduous  in  visiting,  and  very  assiduous  in 
holding  daily  services,  which  are  entirely  unattended. 
He  has  no  priestly  influence  ;  and  I  fear  it  would 
pain  him  deeply  if  he  knew  that  his  social  influence 
is  considerable.  Personally,  I  find  him  a  pleasant 
neighbour  and  highly  congenial  companion.  We 
have  many  agreeable  talks ;  and  when  I  am  in 
that  irritable  tense  mood  which  is  apt  to  develop 
in  solitude,  and  which  can  only  be  cleared  by  an 
ebullition  of  spleen,  I  walk  up  to  the  vicarage  and 
have  a  theological  argument.  It  does  neither 
myself  nor  Mr.  Cuthbert  any  harm,  and  we  are 
better  friends  than  ever — indeed,  he  calls  me  quite 
the  most  agreeable  Erastian  he  knows. 


21 

Let  me  try  to  sketch  the  most  Arcadian  scholar  I 
have  ever  seen  or  dreamed  of;  they  are  common 
enough  in  books ;  the  gentleman  of  high  family, 
with  lustrous  eyes  and  thin  veined  hands,  who  sits 
among  musty  folios — Heaven  knows  what  he  is  sup- 
posed to  be  studying,  or  why  they  need  be  musty — 
who  is  in  some  very  nebulous  way  believed  to  watch 
the  movements  of  the  heavens,  who  takes  no  notice 
of  his  prattling  golden-haired  daughter,  except  to 
print  an  absent  kiss  upon  her  brow — if  there  are 
such  persons  they  are  hard  to  encounter. 

There  is  a  little  market-town  a  mile  or  two  away, 
nestled  among  steep  valleys ;  the  cows  that  graze 
on  the  steep  fields  that  surround  it  look  down  into 
the  chimney-pots  and  back  gardens.  One  of  the 
converging  valleys  is  rich  in  woods,  and  has  a 
pleasant  trout-stream,  that  flows  among  elders, 
bickers  along  by  woodland  corners,  and  runs  brim- 
ming through  rich  water  meadows,  full  of  meadow- 

146 


THE    RECLUSE  147 

sweet  and  willow-herb — the  place  in  summer  has  a 
hot  honied  smell.  You  need  not  follow  the  road, 
but  you  may  take  an  aimless  footpath,  which  mean- 
ders from  stile  to  stile  in  a  leisurely  way.  After  a 
mile  or  so  a  little  stream  bubbles  in  on  the  left ; 
and  close  beside  it  an  old  deep  farm-road,  full  of 
boulders  and  mud  in  winter,  half  road,  half  water- 
course, plunges  down  from  the  wood.  All  the 
hedges  are  full  of  gnarled  roots  fringed  with  luxu- 
riant ferns.  On  a  cloudy  summer  day  it  is  like  a 
hothouse  here,  and  the  flowers  know  it  and  revel  in 
the  warm  growing  air.  Higher  and  higher  the  road 
goes  ;  then  it  passes  a  farm-house,  once  an  ancient 
manor :  the  walls  green  with  lichen  and  moss,  and 
a  curious  ancient  cognizance,  a  bear  with  a  ragged 
staff  clasped  in  his  paws,  over  the  doorway.  The 
farm  is  embowered  in  huge  sprawling  laurels  and 
has  a  little  garden,  with  box  hedges  and  sharp 
savoury  smells  of  herbs  and  sweet-william,  and  a 
row  of  humming  hives.  Push  open  the  byre  gate 
and  go  further  yet ;  we  are  near  the  crest  of  the  hill 
now :  just  below  the  top  grows  a  thick  wood  of 
larches,  set  close  together.  You  would  not  know 
there  was  a  house  in  here.  There  is  a  little  rustic 
gate  at  the  corner  of  the  plantation,  and  a  path,  just 


148  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

a  track,  rarely  trodden,  soft  with  a  carpet  of  innu- 
merable larch-needles. 

Presently  you  come  in  sight  of  a  small  yellow 
stone  house ;  not  a  venerable  house,  nor  a  beautiful 
one — if  anything,  a  little  pretentious,  and  looking  as 
if  the  heart  of  the  plantation  had  been  cut  out  to 
build  it,  as  indeed  it  was  ;  round-topped  windows, 
high  parapets,  no  roof  visible,  and  only  one  rather 
make-shift  chimney ;  the  whole  air  of  it  rather 
sinister,  and  at  the  same  time  shamefaced — a  little 
as  though  it  set  out  to  be  castellated  and  had  sud- 
denly shrunk  and  collapsed,  and  been  hastily  finished. 
A  gravel  walk  very  full  of  weeds  runs  immediately 
round  the  house  ;  there  is  no  garden,  but  a  small 
enclosure  for  cabbages  grown  very  rank.  In  most 
of  the  windows  hang  dirty-looking  blinds  half  pulled 
down  ;  a  general  air  of  sordid  neglect  broods  over 
the  place.  Here  in  this  house  had  lived  for  many 
years — and,  for  all  I  know,  lives  there  still — a  re- 
tired gentleman,  a  public  school  and  University 
man,  who  had  taken  high  honours  at  the  latter ;  not 
rich  but  with  a  competence.  What  had  caused  his 
seclusion  from  the  world  I  do  not  know,  and  I  am 
not  particular  to  inquire  ;  whether  a  false  step  and 
the  forced  abandonment  of  a  career,  a  disappoint- 


THE    RECLUSE  149 

ment  of  some  kind,  a  hypochondriacal  whim,  or  a 
settled  and  deliberate  resolution.  I  know  not,  but 
always  hoped  the  last. 

From  some  slight  indications  I  have  thought  that, 
for  some  reason  or  other,  in  youth,  my  recluse  had 
cause  to  think  that  his  life  would  not  be  a  long  one 
— his  selection  of  a  site  was  apparently  fortuitous. 
He  preferred  a  mild  climate,  and,  it  seems,  took  a 
fancy  to  the  very  remote  and  sequestered  character 
of  the  valley  ;  he  bought  a  few  acres  of  land,  planted 
them  with  larches,  and  in  the  centre  erected  the 
unsightly  house  which   I   have  described. 

Inside  the  place  was  rather  more  attractive  than 
you  would  have  expected.  There  was  a  pinched 
little  entry,  rather  bare,  and  a  steep  staircase  lead- 
ing to  the  upper  regions ;  in  front  of  you  a  door 
leading  to  some  offices ;  on  the  left  a  door  that 
opened  into  a  large  room  to  which  all  the  rest 
of  the  house  had  been  sacrificed.  It  had  three 
windows,  much  overshadowed  by  the  larches,  which 
indeed  at  one  corner  actually  touched  the  house  and 
swept  the  windows  as  they  swayed  in  the  breeze. 
The  room  was  barely  furnished,  with  a  carpet  faded 
beyond  recognition,  and  high  presses,  mostly  con- 
taining books.     An  oak  table  stood  near  one  of  the 


ISO  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

windows,  where  our  hermit  took  his  meals  ;  another 
table,  covered  with  books,  was  set  near  the  fireplace  ; 
at  the  far  end  a  door  led  into  an  ugly  slit  of  a 
room  lighted  by  a  skylight,  where  he  slept.  But  I 
gathered  that  for  days  together  he  did  not  go  to  bed, 
but  dozed  in  his  chair.  On  the  walls  hunof  two  or 
three  portraits,  black  with  age.  One  of  an  officer 
in  a  military  uniform  of  the  last  century  with  a  huge, 
adumbrating  cocked-hat;  a  divine  in  bands  and  wig; 
and  a  pinched-looking  lady  in  blue  silk  with  two 
boys.  His  only  servant  was  an  elderly  strong-look- 
ing woman  of  about  fifty,  with  a  look  of  intense 
mental  suffering  on  her  face,  and  weary  eyes  which 
she  seldom  lifted  from  the  floor.  I  never  heard  her 
utter  more  than  three  consecutive  words.  She  was 
afflicted  I  heard,  not  from  herself,  with  a  power  of 
seeing  apparitions,  not,  curiously,  in  the  house,  but 
in  the  wood  all  round  ;  she  told  Mr.  Woodward  that 
"the  dead  used  to  look  in  at  the  window  at  noon 
and  beckon  her  out."  In  consequence  of  this  she 
had  not  set  foot  outside  the  doors  for  twenty  years, 
except  once,  when  her  master  had  been  attacked  by 
sudden  illness.  The  only  outside  servant  he  had 
was  a  surly  man  who  lived  in  a  cottage  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  away  on  the  high-road,  who  marketed  for 


THE    RECLUSE  151 

them,  drew  water,  and  met  the  carrier's  cart  which 
brought  their  necessaries. 

The  man  himself  was  a  student  of  history :  he 
never  wrote,  except  a  few  marginal  notes  in  his 
books.  He  was  totally  ignorant  of  what  was  going 
on,  took  in  no  papers,  and  asked  no  questions  as  to 
current  events.  He  received  no  letters,  and  the 
only  parcels  that  came  to  him  were  boxes  of  books 
from  a  London  library — memoirs,  historical  trea- 
tises, and  biographies  of  the  last  century.  I  take 
it  he  had  a  minute  knowledge  of  the  social  and  poli- 
tical life  of  England  up  to  the  beginning  of  the  pre- 
sent century ,  he  received  no  one  but  Mr.  Woodward 
who  saw  him  two  or  three  times  a  year,  and  it 
was  with  Mr.  Woodward  that  I  went,  making 
the  excuse  (which  was  actually  the  case)  that 
some  literary  work  that  I  was  doing  was  sus- 
pended for  want  of  books. 

We  were  shown  in ;  he  did  not  rise  to  receive 
us,  but  greeted  us  with  extreme  cordiality,  and  an 
old-fashioned  kiid  of  courtesy,  absolutely  without 
embarrassment.  He  was  a  tall,  thin  man,  with  a  fair 
complexion,  and  straggling  hair  and  beard.  He 
seemed  to  be  in  excellent  health  ;  and  I  learnt  that 
in  the  matter  of  food  and  drink  he  was  singularly 


152  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

abstemious,  which  accounted  for  his  clear  com- 
plexion and  brilliant  eye.  He  smoked  in  modera- 
tion a  very  fragrant  tobacco  of  which  he  gave  me  a 
small  quantity,  but  refused  to  say  where  he  obtained 
it.  There  was  an  air  of  infinite  contentment  about 
him.  He  seemed  to  me  to  hope  for  nothing  and 
expect  nothing  from  life;  to  live  in  the  moment  and 
for  the  moment.  If  ever  I  saw  serene  happiness 
written  on  a  face  in  legible  characters,  it  was  there. 
He  talked  a  little  on  theological  points,  with  an  air 
of  gentle  good-humour,  to  Mr.  Woodward,  somewhat 
as  you  might  talk  to  a  child,  with  amiabla  interest  in 
the  unexpected  cleverness  of  its  replies  ;  he  gave  me 
the  information  I  requested  clearly  and  concisely 
but  with  no  apparent  zest,  and  seemed  to  have  no 
wish  to  dwell  on  the  subject  or  to  part  with  his 
store  of  knowledge. 

His  one  form  of  exercise  was  long^  vague  walks  ; 
in  the  winter  he  rarely  left  the  house  except  on 
moonlight  nights  ;  but  in  the  summer  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  start  as  soon  as  it  was  light,  and  to 
ramble,  never  on  the  roads,  but  by  unfrequented 
field-paths,  for  miles  and  miles,  generally  return- 
ing before  the  ordinary  world  was  astir.  On  hot 
days  he  would  sit  by  the  stream  in  a  very  remote 


MODERN    LIFE  153 

nook  beneath  a  high  bank  where  the  water  ran 
swiftly  down  a  narrow  channel,  and  swung  into  a 
deep  black  pool  ;  here,  I  was  told,  he  would  stay 
for  hours  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  water,  lost  in 
some  mysterious  reverie.  I  take  it  he  was  a  poet 
without  power  of  expression,  and  his  heart  was  as 
clean  as  a  child's. 

It  is  the  fashion  now  to  talk  with  much  affected 
weariness  of  the  hurry  and  bustle  of  modern  life. 
No  doubt  such  things  are  to  be  found  if  you  go  in 
search  of  them  ;  and  to  have  your  life  attended  by 
a  great  quantity  of  either  is  generally  held  to  be  a 
sisrn  of  success.  But  the  truth  is,  that  this  is  what 
ordinary  people  like.  The  ordinary  man  has  no 
precise  idea  what  to  do  with  his  time.  He  needs 
to  have  it  filled  up  by  a  good  many  conflicting  and 
petty  duties,  and  if  it  is  filled  he  has  a  feeling  that 
he  is  useful.  But  many  of  these  duties  are  only 
necessary  because  of  the  existence  of  each  other ; 
it  is  a  vicious  circle.  "What  are  those  fields  for?" 
said  a  squire  who  had  lately  succeeded  to  an  estate, 
as  he  walked  round  with  the  bailiff.  "  To  grow 
oats,  sir."  "And  what  do  you  do  with  the  oats?" 
"  Feed  the  horses,  sir."  "  And  what  do  you  want 
the  horses    for?"       "To  plough   the    fields,    sir." 


154  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

That  is  what  much  of  the  bustle  of  modern   life 
consists  of. 

Solitude  and  silence  are  a  great  strain  ;  but  if 
you  enjoy  them  they  are  at  least  harmless,  which  is 
more  than  can  be  said  of  many  activities.  Such  is 
not  perhaps  the  temper  in  which  continents  are 
explored,  battles  won,  empires  extended,  fortunes 
made.  But  whatever  concrete  gain  we  make  for 
ourselves  must  be  taken  from  others ;  and  we 
ought  to  be  very  certain  indeed  of  the  meaning 
of  this  life,  and  the  nature  of  the  world  to  which 
we  all  migrate,  before  we  immerse  ourselves  in 
self-contrived  businesses.  To  be  natural,  to  find 
our  true  life,  to  be  independent  of  luxuries,  not 
to  be  at  the  mercy  of  prejudices  and  false  ideals 
— ^that  is  the  secret  of  life  :  who  can  say  that  it 
is  a  secret  that  we  most  of  us  make  our  own  ? 
My  recluse,  I  think,  was  nearer  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven,  where  places  are  not  laid  according  to  the 
table  of  precedence,  than  many  men  who  have  had 
biographies  and  statues,  and  who  will  be,  I  fear, 
sadly  adrift  in  the  world  of  silence  into  which  they 
may  be  Hung. 


22 

Nov.  6,  1890. 
To-day  the  gale  had  blown  itself  out ;  all  yesterday 
it  blustered  round  corners,  shook  casements,  thun- 
dered in  the  chimneys,  and  roared  in  the  pines. 
Now  it  is  bright  and  fresh,  and  the  steady  wind  is 
routing  one  by  one  the  few  clouds  that  hang  in  the 
sky.  I  came  in  yesterday  at  dusk,  and  the  whole 
heaven  was  full  of  great  ragged,  lowering  storm- 
wreaths,  weeping  wildly  and  sadly  ;  now  the  rain  is 
over,  though  in  the  morning  a  sudden  dash  of  great 
drops  mingled  with  hail  made  the  windows  patter ; 
but  the  sun  shone  out  very  low  and  white  from  the 
clouds,  even  while  the  hail  leapt  on  the  window- 
sill. 

I  took  the  field-path  that  wanders  aimlessly 
away  below  the  house  ;  the  water  lay  in  the  grass, 
and  the  sodden  leaves  had  a  bitter  smell.  The 
copses  were  very  bare,  and  the  stream  ran  hoarse 
and  turbid.  The  way  wound  by  fallows  and  hedges — 
now  threading  a  steep  copse,  now  along  the  silent 


*i& 


156  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

water-meadows,  now  through  an  open  forest  space, 
with  faggots  tied  and  piled,  or  by  a  cattle  byre. 
Here  and  there  I  turned  into  a  country  lane,  till  at 
last  the  village  of  Spyfield  lay  before  me,  with  the 
ancient  church  of  dark  sandstone  and  the  little 
street  of  handsome  Georgian  houses,  very  neat  and 
prim — a  place,  you  would  think,  where  every  one 
went  to  bed  at  ten,  and  where  no  murmurs  of  wars 
ever  penetrated. 

Just  beyond  the  village,  my  friend,  Mr.  Camp- 
den,  the  great  artist,  has  built  himself  a  palace. 
It  is  somewhat  rococo,  no  doubt,  with  its  marble 
terrace  and  its  gilded  cupolas.  But  it  gleams  in 
the  dark  hanging  wood  with  an  exotic  beauty  of 
its  own,  as  if  a  Genie  had  uprooted  it  from  a  Tuscan 
slope,  and  planted  it  swiftly,  in  an  unfamiliar  world, 
in  an  hour  of  breathless  labour  between  the  twilight 
and  the  dawn.  Still,  fantastic  as  it  is,  it  is  an 
agreeable  contrast  to  the  brick-built  mansions,  with 
their  slated  turrets,  that  have  lately,  alas,  begun  to 
alight  in  our  woodlands. 

Mr.  Campdcn  is  a  real  prince,  a  Lorenzo  the 
Magnificent ;  not  only  is  he  the  painter  of  pictures 
which  command  a  higli  price,  though  to  me  they 
are    little   more  than    harmonious   wall-paper ;    but 


MR.    CAMPDEN  157 

he  binds  books,  makes  furniture,  weaves  tapestry, 
and  even  bakes  tiles  and  pottery  ;  and  the  slender 
minaret  that  rises  from  a  plain,  windowless  building 
on  the  right,  is  nothing  but  a  concealed   chimney. 
Moreover,  he  inherited  through  a  relative's  death  an 
immense  fortune,  so  that  he  is  a  millionaire  as  well. 
To-day  I  followed  the  little  steep  lane  that  skirts  his 
domain,  and  halted  for  a  moment  at  a  great  grille 
of  ironwork,  which  gives  the  passer-by  a  romantic 
and   generous   glimpse    of   a    pleached    alley,    ter- 
minated by  a  mysterious  leaden  statue.      I  peeped 
in   cautiously,   and   saw  the    great    man  in   a  blue 
suit,  with  a  fur  cloak  thrown  round  his  shoulders, 
a  slouched  hat  set  back  from  his  forehead,  and  a 
loose  red  tie  Meaminof  from  his  low-cut  collar.     I  was 
near  enough  to  see  his  wavy  white  hair  and  beard, 
his  keen  eyes,  his  thin  hands,  as  he  paced  delicately 
about,   breathing   the  air,  and  looking   critically  at 
the  exquisite  house  beyond  him.      I  am  sure  of  a 
welcome    from    Mr.    Campden — indeed,    he    has    a 
princely  welcome  for  all  the  world — but  to-day   I 
felt  a   certain  simple  schoolboy  shyness,   which  ill 
accords  with  Mr.  Campden's  Venetian  manner.     It 
is  delightful  after  long  rusticity  to  be  with  him,  but 
it  is  like  taking  a  part  in  some  solemn  and  affected 


158  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

dance ;  to  Mr.  Campden  I  am  the  student-recluse, 
and  to  be  gracefully  bantered  accordingly,  and 
asked  a  series  of  questions  on  matters  with  which 
I  am  wholly  unacquainted,  but  which  are  all  part  of 
the  setting  with  which  his  pictorial  mind  has 
dowered  me.  On  my  first  visit  to  him  I  spoke  of 
the  field-names  of  the  neighbourhood,  and  so  Mr. 
Campden  speaks  to  me  of  Domesday  Book,  which 
I  have  never  seen.  I  happened  to  express — in 
sheer  wantonness — an  interest  in  strange  birds,  and 
I  have  ever  since  to  Mr.  Campden  been  a  man 
who,  in  the  intervals  of  reading  Domesday  Book, 
stands  in  all  weathers  on  hilltops,  or  by  reedy 
stream-ends,  watching  for  eagles  and  swans,  like  a 
Roman  augur — indeed  Augur  is  the  name  he  gives 
me — our  dear  Augur — when  I  am  introduced  to 
his  great  friends. 

Mr.  Campden  has  an  infinite  contempt  for  the 
gentlemen  of  the  neighbourhood,  whom  he  treats 
with  splendid  courtesy,  and  the  kind  of  patronis- 
ing amusement  with  which  one  listens  to  the 
prattle  of  a  rustic  child.  It  is  a  matter  of  un- 
ceasing merriment  to  me  to  see  him  with  a  young 
squire  of  the  neighbourhood,  an  intelligent  young 
fellow  who   has  travelled  a   good   deal,   and   is   a 


MR.    CAMPDEN  159 

considerable  reader.  He  has  a  certain  superficial 
shyness,  and  consequently  has  never  been  able  to 
secure  enough  of  the  talk  for  himself  to  show 
Mr,  Campden  what  he  is  thinking  of;  and  Mr. 
Campden  at  once  boards  him  with  questions  about 
the  price  of  eggs  and  the  rotation  of  crops,  calling 
him,  "Will  Honeycomb"  from  the  Spectator;  and 
when  plied  with  nervous  questions  as  to  Perugino 
or  Carlo  Dolce,  siiying  grandiloquently,  "  My  dear 
young  man,  I  know  nothing  whatever  about  it ; 
I  leave  that  to  the  critics.  I  am  a  republican  in 
art,  a  red  indeed,  ha,  ha!  And  you  and  I  must 
not  concern  ourselves  with  such  things.  Here  we 
are  in  the  country,  and  we  must  talk  of  bullocks. 
Tell  me  now,  in  Lorton  market  last  week,  what 
price  did  a  Tegg  fetch  ?  " 

Mr.  Campden  is  extraordinarily  ignorant  of  all 
country  matters,  and  has  a  small  stock  of  ancient 
provincial  words,  not  indigenous  to  the  neighbour- 
hood, but  gathered  from  local  histories,  that  he 
produces  with  complacent  pride.  Indeed,  I  do  not 
know  that  I  ever  saw  a  more  ludicrous  scene  than 
Mr.  Campden  talking  agriculture  to  a  distinguished 
scientific  man,  whom  a  neighbouring  squire  had 
brought  over  to  tea  with  him,  and  whom  he  took 


i6o  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

for  a  landowner.  To  hear  Mr.  Campden  explain- 
ing a  subject  with  which  he  was  not  acquainted  to  a 
courteous  scientist,  who  did  not  even  know  to  what 
he  was  alluding,  was  a  sight  to  make  angels  laugh. 

But  to-day  I  let  Mr.  Campden  pace  like  a 
peacock  up  and  down  his  pleasaunces,  with  his 
greyhound  following  him,  and  threaded  the  water- 
meadows  homewards.  I  gave  myself  up  to  the  luxur- 
ious influences  of  solitude  and  cool  airs,  and  walked 
slowly,  indifferent  where  I  went,  by  sandstone  pits, 
by  brimming  streams,  through  dripping  coverts, 
till  the  day  declined.  What  did  I  think  of.-*  I 
hardly  dare  confess.  There  are  two  or  three 
ludicrous,  pitiful  ambitions  that  lurk  in  the  corners 
of  my  mind,  which,  when  I  am  alone  and  aimless, 
I  take  out  and  hold,  as  a  child  holds  a  doll,  while 
fancy  invests  them  with  radiant  hues.  These  and 
no  other  were  my  mental  pabulum.  I  know  they 
cannot  be  realised — indeed,  I  do  not  desire  them — 
but  these  odd  and  dusty  fancies  remain  with  me 
from  far-off  boyish  days  ;  and  many  a  time  have 
I  thus  paraded  them  in  all  their  silliness. 

But  the  hedgerow  grasses  grew  indistinguish- 
ably  grey  ;  the  cattle  splashed  home  along  the  road ; 
the  sharp  smell  of  wood  smoke  from  cottage  fires. 


HOME  i6i 

piled  for  the  long  evenings,  stole  down  the  wood- 
ways  ;  pheasants  muttered  and  crowed  in  the 
coverts,  and  sprang  clanging  to  their  roosts.  The 
murmur  of  the  stream  became  louder  and  more 
insistent ;  and  as  I  turned  the  corner  of  the  wood, 
it  was  with  a  glow  of  pleasure  that  I  saw  the 
sober  gables  of  Golden  End,  and  the  hall  window, 
like  a  red  and  solemn  eye,  gaze  cheerily  upon  the 
misty  valley. 


23 

July  7,  1891. 
I  CANNOT  tell  why  it  is,  but  to  be  alone  among 
woods,  especially  towards  evening,  is  often  attended 
with  a  vague  unrest,  an  unsubstantial  awe,  which, 
though  of  the  nature  of  pleasure,  is  perilously  near 
the  confines  of  horror.  On  certain  days,  when  the 
nerves  are  very  alert  and  the  woods  unusually  still, 
I  have  known  the  sense  become  almost  insupport- 
able. There  is  a  certain  feeling  of  being  haunted, 
followed,  watched,  almost  dogged,  which  is  bewilder- 
ing and  unmanning.  Foolish  as  it  may  appear, 
I  have  found  the  carrying  of  a  gun  almost  a  relief 
on  such  occasions.  But  what  heightens  the  sense 
in  a  strange  degree  is  the  presence  of  still  water. 
A  stream  is  lively — it  encourages  and  consoles ; 
but  the  sight  of  a  long  dark  lake,  with  the  woods 
coming  down  to  the  water's  edge,  is  a  sight  so 
solemn  as  to  be  positively  oppressive.  Each  kind 
of  natural  scenery  has  its  own  awe — the  genius 
loci,  so  to  speak.     On  a  grassy  down  there  is  the 


162 


IN    THE    WOODS  163 

terror  of  the  huge  open-eyed  gaze  of  the  sky.  In 
craggy  mountains  there  is  something  wild  and 
beastlike  frowning  from  the  rocks.  Among  ice 
and  snow  there  is  something  mercilessly  pure  and 
averse  to  life ;  but  neither  of  these  is  so  intense 
or  definite  as  the  horror  of  still  woods  and  silent 
waters.  The  feeling  is  admirably  expressed  by  Mr. 
George  Macdonald  in  Phajitastes,  a  magical  book. 
It  is  that  sensation  of  haunting  presences  hiding 
behind  trees,  watching  us  timidly  from  the  fern, 
peeping  from  dark  copses,  resting  among  fantastic 
and  weather-worn  rocks,  that  finds  expression  in 
the  stories  of  Dryads  and  fairies,  which  seem  so 
deeply  implanted  in  the  mind  of  man.  Who,  on 
coming  out  through  dark  woods  into  some  green 
sequestered  lawn,  set  deep  in  the  fringing  forest, 
has  not  had  the  sensation  of  an  interrupted  revel, 
a  festivity  suddenly  abandoned  by  wild,  ethereal 
natures,  who  have  shrunk  in  silent  alarm  back  into 
the  sheltering  shades  ?  If  only  one  had  been 
more  wary,  and  stolen  a  moment  earlier  upon  the 
unsuspecting  company ! 

But  there  is  a  darker  and  cloudier  sensation,  the 
ad7no7iitus  locortim,  which  I  have  experienced  upon 
fields  of  battle,  and  places  where  some  huge  tragedy 


i64  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

of  human  suffering  and  excitement  has  been 
wrought.  I  have  felt  it  upon  the  rustic  ploughland 
of  Jena,  and  on  the  grassy  slopes  of  Flodden  ;  it  has 
crept  over  me  under  the  mouldering  walls  and 
frowning  gateways  of  old  guarded  towns  ;  and 
not  only  there,  where  it  may  be  nothing  but  the 
reflex  of  shadowy  imaginations,  but  on  wind-swept 
moors  and  tranquil  valleys,  I  have  felt,  by  some 
secret  intuition,  some  overpowering  tremor  of  spirit, 
that  here  some  desperate  strife  has  been  waged, 
some  primeval  conflict  enacted.  There  is  a  spot  in 
the  valley  of  Llanthony,  a  grassy  tumulus  among 
steep  green  hills,  where  the  sense  came  over  me 
with  an  uncontrollable  throb  of  insight,  that  here 
some  desperate  stand  was  made,  some  barbarous 
Thermopylae  lost  or  won. 

There  is  a  place  near  Golden  End  where  I 
encountered  a  singular  experience.  I  own  that  I 
never  pass  it  now  without  some  obsession  of  feeling; 
indeed,  I  will  confess  that  when  I  am  alone  I  take  a 
considerable  circuit  to  avoid  the  place.  An  ancient 
footway,  trodden  deep  in  a  sandy  covert,  winds  up 
through  a  copse,  and  comes  out  into  a  quiet  place 
far  from  the  high-road,  in  the  heart  of  the  wood. 
Here  stands  a  mouldering  barn,  and  there  are  two 


A   DARK    SECRET  165 

or  three  shrubs,  an  escalonia  and  a  cypress,  that 
testify  to  some  remote  human  occupation.  There 
is  a  stretch  of  green  sward,  varied  with  bracken, 
and  on  the  left  a  deep  excavation,  where  sand  has 
been  dug  :  in  winter,  a  pool  ;  in  summer,  a  marshy 
place  full  of  stiff,  lush  water-plants.  In  this  place, 
time  after  time  as  I  passed  it,  there  seemed  to  be  a 
strange  silence.  No  bird  seemed  to  sing  here,  no 
woodland  beast  to  frisk  here  ;  a  secret  shame  or 
horror  rested  on  the  spot.  It  was  with  no  sense 
of  surprise,  but  rather  of  resolved  doubt,  that  J 
found,  one  bright  morning,  two  labouring  men  bent 
over  some  object  that  lay  upon  the  ground.  When 
they  saw  me,  they  seemed  at  first  to  hesitate,  and 
then  asked  me  to  come  and  look.  It  was  a 
spectacle  of  singular  horror  :  they  had  drawn  from 
the  marshy  edge  of  the  pool  the  tiny  skeleton  of  a 
child,  wrapped  in  some  oozy  and  ragged  cloths  ; 
the  slime  dripping  from  the  eyeless  cavities  of  the 
little  skull,  and  the  weeds  trailing  over  the  unsightly 
cerements.  It  had  caught  the  eye  of  one  of  them 
as  they  were  passing.  "  The  place  has  always  had 
an  evil  name,"  said  one  of  them  with  a  strange 
solemnity.  There  had  been  a  house  there,  I 
gathered,  inhabited  by  a  mysterious  and  evil  family, 


i66  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

a  place  of  dark  sin  and  hideous  tradition.  The 
stock  had  dwindled  down  to  a  wild  solitary  woman, 
who  extracted  a  bare  sustenance  out  of  a  tiny  farm, 
and  who  alternated  long  periods  of  torpid  gloom 
with  disgusting  orgies  of  drunkenness.  Thirty 
years  ago  she  had  died,  and  the  farm  had  remained 
so  long  unlet  that  it  was  at  last  pulled  down,  and 
the  land  planted  with  wood.  Subsequent  investiga- 
tions revealed  nothing ;  and  the  body  had  lain 
there,  it  was  thought,  for  fully  that  time,  preserved 
from  decay  by  an  iron-bound  box  in  which  it  had 
been  enclosed,  and  of  which  some  traces  still 
remained  in  reddish  smears  of  rust  and  clotted  nails. 
That  picture — the  sunlit  morning,  the  troubled  faces 
of  the  men,  the  silent  spectatorial  woods — has  dwelt 
with  me  ineffaceably. 

Again,  I  have  been  constantly  visited  by  the 
same  inexplicable  sensation  in  a  certain  room  at 
Golden  End.  The  room  in  question  is  a  great 
bare  chamber  at  the  top  of  the  house  :  the  walls 
are  plastered,  and  covered  in  all  directions  by 
solid  warped  beams  ;  through  the  closed  and  dusty 
window  the  sunlight  filters  sordidly  into  the  room. 
I  do  not  know  why  it  has  never  been  furnished,  but 
I   gathered   that    my    father    took   an    unexplained 


OBSESSION  167 

dislike  to  the  room  from  the  first.  The  odd  feature 
of  it  is,  that  in  the  wall  at  one  end  is  a  small  door, 
as  of  a  cupboard,  some  feet  from  the  ground,  which 
opens,  not  as  you  would  expect  into  a  cupboard, 
but  into  a  loft,  where  you  can  see  the  tiles,  the 
brickwork  of  the  clustered  chimney-stacks,  and  the 
plastered  lathwork  of  the  floor,  in  and  below  the 
joists  of  the  timber.  This  strange  opening  can 
never  have  been  a  window,  because  the  shutter  is 
of  the  same  date  as  the  house  ;  still  less  a  door,  for 
it  is  hardly  possible  to  squeeze  through  it ;  but  as 
the  loft  into  which  it  looks  is  an  accretion  of  later 
date  than  the  room  itself,  it  seems  to  me  that  the 
garret  may  have  been  once  a  granary  up  to  which 
sacks  were  swung  from  the  ground  by  a  pulley  ; 
and  this  is  made  more  possible  by  the  existence 
of  some  iron  staples  on  the  outer  side  of  it, 
that  appear  to  have  once  controlled  some  simple 
mechanism. 

The  room  is  now  a  mere  receptacle  for  lumber, 
but  it  is  strange  that  all  who  enter  it,  even  the 
newest  inmate  of  the  house,  take  an  unaccountable 
dislike  to  the  place.  I  have  myself  struggled 
against  the  feeling ;  I  once  indeed  shut  myself  up 
there  on  a  sunny  afternoon,  and  endeavoured    to 


i68  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

shame  myself  by  pure  reason  out  of  the  disagree- 
able, almost  physical  sensation  that  at  once  came 
over  me,  but  all  in  vain ;  there  was  something 
about  the  bare  room,  with  its  dusty  and  worm-eaten 
floor,  the  hot  stagnant  air,  the  floating  motes  in 
the  stained  sunlight,  and  above  all  the  sinister  little 
door,  that  gave  me  a  discomfort  that  it  seems  im- 
possible to  express  in  speech.  My  own  room  must 
have  been  the  scene  of  many  a  serious  human 
event.  Sick  men  must  have  lain  there ;  hopeless 
prayers  must  have  echoed  there ;  children  must 
have  been  born  there,  and  souls  must  have  quitted 
their  shattered  tenement  beneath  its  ancient  panels. 
But  these  have  after  all  been  normal  experiences  ; 
in  the  other  room,  I  make  no  doubt,  some  altogether 
abnormal  event  must  have  happened,  something  of 
which  the  ethereal  aroma,  as  of  some  evil,  penetrat- 
ing acid,  must  have  bitten  deep  into  wall  and  floor, 
and  soaked  the  very  beam  of  the  roof  with  anxious 
and  disturbed  oppression.  In  feverish  fancy  I  see 
strange  things  enact  themselves  ;  I  see  at  the  dead 
of  night  pale  heads  crane  from  the  window,  oppres- 
sive silence  hold  the  room,  as  some  dim  and  ugly 
burden  jerks  and  dangles  from  the  descending  rope, 
while   the    rude  gear  creaks  and  rustles,   and  the 


THE    EVIL   ROOM  169 

vane  upon  the  cupola  sings  its  melancholy  rusty 
song  in  the  glimmering  darkness.  It  is  strange 
that  the  mind  should  be  so  tangibly  impressed  and 
yet  should  have  no  power  given  it  to  solve  the  sad 
enigma. 


24 

Sep.  lo,  1891. 
Very  few  consecutive  days  pass  at  Golden  End 
without  my  contriving  to  get  what  I  most  enjoy  in 
the  form  of  exercise — a  long,  slow,  solitary  ride ; 
severer  activities  are  denied  me.  I  have  a  strong, 
big  -  boned,  amiable  horse — strength  is  the  one 
desideratum  in  a  horse,  in  country  where,  to 
reach  a  point  that  appears  to  be  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  away,  it  is  often  necessary  to  descend  by  a 
steep  lane  to  a  point  two  or  three  hundred  feet 
below  and  to  ascend  a  corresponding  acclivity  on 
the  other  side.  Sometimes  my  ride  has  a  definite 
object.  I  have  to  see  a  neighbouring  farmer  on 
business,  or  there  is  shopping  to  be  done  at  Spyfield, 
or  a  distant  call  has  to  be  paid — but  it  is  best  when 
there  is  no  such  scheme — and  the  result  is  that 
after  a  few  years  there  is  hardly  a  lane  within  a 
radius  of  five  miles  that  I  have  not  carefully  ex- 
plored, and  hardly  a  hamlet  within  ten  miles  that  1 
have  not  visited. 


170 


THE    COUNTRY  171 

The  by-lanes  are  the  most  attractive  feature. 
You  turn  out  of  the  high-road  down  a  steep  sandy 
track,  with  high  banks  overhung  by  hazel  and 
spindlewood  and  oak-copse;  the  ground  falls  rapidly. 
Through  gaps  at  the  side  you  can  see  the  high, 
sloping  forest  glades  opposite,  or  look  along  lonely 
green  rides  which  lead  straight  into  the  heart  of 
silent  woods.  There  has  been  as  a  rule  no  parsi- 
monious policy  of  enclosure,  and  the  result  is  that 
there  are  often  wide  grassy  spaces  beside  the  road, 
thickset  with  furze  or  forest  undergrowth,  with 
here  and  there  a  tiny  pool,  or  a  little  dingle  where 
sandstone  has  been  dug.  Down  at  the  base  of  the 
hill  you  find  a  stream  running  deep  below  a  rustic 
white  -  railed  bridge,  through  sandy  cuttings,  all 
richly  embowered  with  alders,  and  murmuring 
pleasantly  through  tall  water-plants.  Here  and 
there  is  a  weather-tiled  cottage,  with  a  boarded 
gable  and  a  huge  brick  chimney-stack,  flanked  by 
a  monstrous  yew.  Suddenly  the  road  strikes  into 
a  piece  of  common,  a  true  English  forest,  with  a 
few  huge  beeches,  and  thick  covert  of  ferns  and 
saplings  ;  still  higher  and  you  are  on  open  ground, 
with  the  fragrant  air  blowing  off  the  heather ;  a 
clump  of  pines  marks   the  summit,  and  in   an   in- 


172  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

stant  the  rolling  plain  lies  before  you,  rich  in  wood, 
rising  in  billowy  ranges,  with  the  smoke  going  up 
from  a  hundred  hamlets,  and  the  shadowy  downs 
closing  the  horizon.  Then  you  can  ride  a  mile  or 
two  on  soft  white  sand-paths  winding  in  and  out 
among  the  heather,  while  the  sun  goes  slowly 
down  among  purple  islands  of  cloud,  with  gilded 
promontories  and  fiords  of  rosy  light,  and  the 
landscape  grows  more  and  more  indistinct  and 
romantic,  suffused  in  a  golden  haze.  At  last  it  is 
time  to  turn  homewards,  and  you  wind  down  into 
a  leafy  dingle,  where  the  air  lies  in  cool  strata 
across  the  sun-warmed  path,  and  fragrant  wood- 
smells,  from  the  heart  of  winding  ways  and  marshy 
streamlets,  pour  out  of  the  green  dusk.  The  whole 
day  you  have  hardly  seen  a  human  being — an  old 
labourer  has  looked  out  with  a  slow  bovine  stare 
from  some  field-corner,  a  group  of  cottage  children 
have  hailed  you  over  a  fence,  or  a  carter  walking 
beside  a  clinking  team  has  given  you  a  muttered 
greeting — the  only  sounds  have  been  the  voices  of 
birds  breaking  from  the  thicket,  the  rustle  of  leaves, 
the  murmuring  of  unseen  streams,  and  the  padding 
of  your  horse's  hoofs  in  the  sandy  lane. 

And  what  does  the   mind  do  in  these  tranquil 


THE    PEACEFUL    MIND  173 

hours?  I  hardly  know.  The  thought  runs  in  a 
Httle  leisurely  stream,  glancing  from  point  to  point ; 
the  observation  is,  I  notice,  prematurely  acute,  and, 
though  the  intellectual  faculties  are  in  abeyance, 
drinks  in  impressions  with  greedy  delight :  the 
feathery,  blue-green  foliage  of  the  ash-suckers,  the 
grotesque,  geometrical  forms  in  the  lonely  sand- 
stone quarry,  the  curving  water-meadows  with  their 
tousled  grasses,  the  stone-leek  on  the  roof  of  mel- 
lowed barns,  the  flash  of  white  chalk-quarries  carved 
out  of  distant  downs,  the  climbing,  clustering  roofs 
of  the  hamlet  on  the  neighbouring  ridge. 

Some  would  say  that  the  mind  in  such  hours 
grows  dull,  narrow,  rustical,  and  slow — "in  the 
lonely  vale  of  streams,"  as  Ossian  sang,  "abides 
the  narrow  soul."  I  hardly  know,  but  I  think  it  is 
the  opposite :  it  is  true  that  one  does  not  learn  in 
such  silent  hours  the  deft  trick  of  speech,  the  easy 
flow  of  humorous  thoughts,  the  tinkling  interchange 
of  the  mind  ;  but  there  creeps  over  the  spirit  some- 
thing of  the  coolness  of  the  pasture,  the  tranquillity 
of  green  copses,  and  the  contentment  of  the  lazy 
stream.  I  think  that,  undiluted,  such  days  might 
foster  the  elementary  brutishness  of  the  spirit,  and 
that  just  as  rhododendrons  degenerate,  if  untended, 
to  the  primal  magenta  type,  so  one  might  revert  by 


174  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

slow  deofrees  to  the  animal  which  lies  not  far  below 
the  civilised  surface.  But  there  is  no  danger  in 
my  own  life  that  I  should  have  too  much  of  such 
reverie  ;  indeed,  I  have  to  scheme  a  little  for  it ;  and 
it  is  to  me  a  bath  of  peace,  a  plunge  into  the  quiet 
waters  of  nature,  a  refreshing  return  to  the  un- 
troubled and  gentle  spirit  of  the  earth. 

The  only  thing  to  fear  in  such  rides  as  these, 
is  if  some  ugly  or  sordid  thought,  some  muddy 
difficulty,  some  tangled  dilemma  is  stuck  like  a  burr 
on  the  mind  ;  then  indeed  such  hours  are  of  little 
use,  if  they  be  not  positively  harmful.  The  mind 
(at  least  my  mind)  has  a  way  of  arranging  matters 
in  solitude  so  as  to  be  as  little  hopeful,  as  little 
kindly  as  possible ;  the  fretted  spirit  brews  its 
venom,  practises  for  odious  repartees,  plans  devilish 
questions,  and  rehearses  the  mean  drama  over  and 
over.  At  such  hours  I  feel  indeed  like  Sinbad, 
with  the  lithe  legs  and  skinny  arms  of  the  Old 
Man  of  the  Sea  twined  round  his  neck.  But  the 
mood  changes — an  interesting  letter,  a  sunshiny 
day,  a  pleasant  visitor — any  of  these  raises  the 
spirit  out  of  the  mire,  and  restores  me  to  myself; 
and  I  resume  my  accustomed  tranquillity  all  the 
more  sedulously  for  having  had  a  dip  in  the  tonic 
tide  of  depression 


25 

June  6,  1892. 
I  HAVE  often  thought  what  a  lightening  of  the 
load  of  life  it  would  be  if  we  could  arrive  at  greater 
simplicity  and  directness  in  our  social  dealings  with 
others.  Of  course  the  first  difficulty  to  triumph 
over  is  the  physical  difficulty  of  simple  shyness, 
which  so  often  paralyses  men  and  women  in  the 
presence  of  a  stranger.  But  how  instantly  and 
perfectly  a  natural  person  evokes  naturalness  in 
others.  This  naturalness  is  hardly  to  be  achieved 
without  a  certain  healthy  egotism.  It  by  no  means 
produces  naturalness  in  others  to  begin  operations 
by  questioning  people  about  themselves.  But  if 
one  person  begins  to  talk  easily  and  frankly  about 
his  own  interests,  others  insensibly  follow  suit  by  a 
kind  of  simple  imitativeness.  And  if  the  inspirer 
of  this  naturalness  is  not  a  profound  egotist,  if  he  is 
really  interested  in  other  people,  if  he  can  waive  his 
own  claims  to  attention,  the  difficulty  is  overcome. 
The  other  day  I  was  bicycling,  and  on  turning 

»75 


176  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

out  of  Spyfield,  where  I  had  been  doing  some 
business,  I  observed  another  bicyclist  a  little  ahead 
of  me.  He  was  a  tall  thin  man,  with  a  loose 
white  hat,  and  he  rode  with  a  certain  fantastic 
childish  zest  which  attracted  my  attention.  If  there 
was  a  little  upward  slope  in  the  road,  he  tacked 
extravagantly  from  side  to  side,  and  seemed  to  be 
encouraging  himself  by  murmured  exhortations. 
He  had  a  word  for  every  one  he  passed.  I 
rode  for  about  half  a  mile  behind  him,  and  he  at 
last  dismounted  at  the  foot  of  a  steep  slope  that 
leads  up  to  a  place  called  Gallows  Hill.  He 
stopped  half-way  up  the  hill  to  study  a  map,  and  as 
I  passed  him  wheeling  my  bicycle,  he  called 
cheerily  to  me  to  ask  how  far  it  was  to  a  neighbour- 
ing village.  I  told  him  to  the  best  of  my  ability, 
whereupon  he  said,  "Oh  no,  I  am  sure  you  are 
wrong ;  it  must  be  twice  that  distance ! "  I  was 
for  an  instant  somewhat  nettled,  feeling  that  if  he 
knew  his  distance,  his  question  had  a  certain  wan- 
tonness. So  I  said,  "  Well,  I  have  lived  here  for 
twenty  years  and  know  all  the  roads  very  well." 
The  stranger  touched  his  hat  and  said,  "  I  am  sure 
I  apologise  with  all  my  heart ;  I  ought  not  to  have 
spoken  as  I  did." 


THE    CONVEYANCER  177 

Examining  him  at  my  leisure  I  saw  him  to  be 
a  tall,  lean  man,  with  rather  exaggerated  features. 
He  had  a  big,  thin  head,  a  long,  pointed  nose,  a 
mobile  and  smiling  mouth,  large  dark  eyes,  and 
full  side-whiskers.  I  took  him  at  once  for  a  pro- 
fessional man  of  some  kind,  solicitor,  schoolmaster, 
or  even  a  clergyman,  though  his  attire  was  not 
clerical.  "  Here,"  he  said,  "just  take  the  end  of 
this  map  and  let  us  consult  together."  I  did  as  I 
was  desired,  and  he  pointed  out  the  way  he  meant 
to  take.  "Now,"  he  said,  "there  is  a  train  there 
in  an  hour,  and  I  want  to  arrive  there  easily — mind 
you,  not  hot;  that  is  so  uncomfortable."  I  told 
him  that  if  he  knew  the  road,  which  was  a  com- 
plicated one,  he  could  probably  just  do  it  in  the 
time ;  but  I  added  that  I  was  myself  going  to  pass 
a  station  on  the  line,  where  he  might  catch  the 
same  train  nearer  town.  He  looked  at  me  with  a 
certain  slyness.  "  Are  you  certain  of  that } "  he 
cried ;  "  I  have  all  the  trains  at  my  fingers'  ends." 
I  assured  him  it  was  so,  while  he  consulted  a  time- 
table. "Right!"  he  said,  "you  are  right,  but  a// 
the  trains  do  not  stop  there ;  it  is  not  a  deduction 
that  you  can  draw  from  the  fact  of  07te  stopping  at 
the  other  station."     We  walked  up  to  the  top  of 


M 


178  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

the  hill  together,  and  I  proposed  that  we  should  ride 
in  company.  He  accepted  with  alacrity.  "  No- 
thing I  should  like  better ! "  As  we  got  on  to  our 
bicycles  his  foot  slipped.  **  You  will  notice,"  he 
said,  **  that  these  are  new  boots — of  a  good  pattern 
— but  somewhat  smooth  on  the  sole ;  in  fact  they 
slip."  I  replied  that  it  was  a  good  thing  to  scratch 
new  boots  on  the  sole,  so  as  to  roughen  them  before 
riding.  "A  capital  idea!"  he  said  delightedly;  "I 
shall  do  it  the  moment  I  return,  with  a  pair  of  nail- 
scissors,  closed^  mind  you,  to  prevent  my  straining 
either  blade."  We  then  rode  off,  and  after  a  few 
yards  he  said,  "  Now,  this  is  not  my  usual  pace — 
rather  faster  than  I  can  go  with  comfort."  I  begged 
him  to  take  his  own  pace,  and  he  then  began  to 
talk  of  the  country.  "  Pent  up  in  my  chambers," 
he  said — "  I  am  a  conveyancer,  you  must  know — 
I  long  for  a  green  lane  and  a  row  of  elms.  I  have 
lived  for  years  in  town,  in  a  most  convenient  street, 
I  must  tell  you,  but  I  sicken  for  the  country ;  and 
now  that  I  am  in  easier  circumstances — 1  have 
lived  a  hard  life,  mind  you — I  am  going  to  make 
the  great  change,  and  live  in  the  country.  Now, 
what  is  your  opinion  of  the  relative  merits  of  town 
and  country  as  a  place  of  residence  .•* "     I  told  him 


THE    SIMPLE    MIND  179 

that  the  only  disadvantage  of  the  country  to  my 
mind  was  the  difficulty  of  servants.  "  Right  again  !  " 
he  said,  as  if  I  had  answered  a  riddle.  "  But  I 
have  overcome  that ;  I  have  been  educating  a  pair 
of  good  maids  for  years — they  are  paragons,  and 
they  will  go  anywhere  with  me ;  indeed,  they  prefer 
the  country  themselves." 

In  such  light  talk  we  beguiled  the  way ;  too 
soon  we  came  to  where  our  roads  divided  ;  I  pointed 
out  to  him  the  turn  he  was  to  take.  "Well,"  he 
said  cheerily,  "  all  pleasant  things  come  to  an  end. 
I  confess  that  I  have  enjoyed  your  company,  and 
am  grateful  for  your  kind  communications  ;  per- 
haps we  may  have  another  encounter,  and  if  not, 
we  will  be  glad  to  have  met,  and  think  sometimes 
of  this  pleasant  hour  !  "  He  put  his  foot  upon  the 
step  of  his  bicycle  cautiously,  then  mounted  glee- 
fully, and  saying  "  Good-bye,  good-bye !  "  he  waved 
his  hand,  and  in  a  moment  was  out  of  sight. 

The  thought  of  this  brave  and  merry  spirit 
planning  schemes  of  life,  making  the  most  of  simple 
pleasures,  has  always  dwelt  with  me.  The  gods, 
as  we  know  from  Homer,  assumed  the  forms  of 
men,  and  were  at  the  pains  to  relate  long  and 
wholly  unreliable  stories  to  account  for  their  pre- 


i8o  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

sence  at  particular  times  and  places ;  and  I  have 
sometimes  wondered  whether  in  the  lean  convey- 
ancer, with  his  childlike  zest  for  experience,  his 
brisk  enjoyment  of  the  smallest  details  of  daily  life, 
I  did  not  entertain  some  genial,  masquerading  angel 
unawares. 


26 

June  8,  1893. 
Is  it  not  the  experience  of  every  one  that  at  rare 
intervals,  by  some  happy  accident,  Hfe  presents  one 
with  a  sudden  and  delicious  thrill  of  beauty?  I 
have  often  tried  to  analyse  the  constituent  elements 
of  these  moments,  but  the  essence  is  subtle  and 
defies  detection.  They  cannot  be  calculated  upon, 
or  produced  by  any  amount  of  volition  or  previous 
preparation.  One  thing  about  these  tiny  ecstasies 
I  have  noticed — they  do  not  come  as  a  rule  when 
one  is  tranquil,  healthy,  serene — they  rather  come 
as  a  compensation  for  weariness  and  discontent ; 
and  yet  they  are  the  purest  gold  of  life,  and  a  good 
deal  of  sand  is  well  worth  washing  for  a  pellet  or 
two  of  the  real  metal. 

To-day  I  was  more  than  usually  impatient ;  over 
me  all  the  week  had  hung  the  shadow  of  some 
trying,  difficult  business — the  sort  of  business  which, 
whatever  you  do,  will  be  done  to  nobody's  satisfac- 
tion.    After   a  vain  attempt    to  wrestle  with    it,   I 


181 


i82  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

gave  It  up,  and  went  out  on  a  bicycle ;  the  wind 
blew  gently  and  steadily  this  soft  June  day ;  all  the 
blue  sky  was  filled  with  large  white  clouds,  blacken- 
ing to  rain.  I  made  for  the  one  piece  of  flat  ground 
in  our  neighbourhood.  It  is  tranquillising,  I  have 
often  found,  to  the  dweller  in  a  hilly  land,  to  cool 
and  sober  the  eye  occasionally  with  the  pure 
breadths  of  a  level  plain.  The  grass  was  thick  and 
heavy-headed  in  the  fields,  but  of  mere  wantonness 
I  turned  down  a  lane  which  I  know  has  no  ending, 
— a  mere  relief-road  for  carts  to  have  access  to  a 
farm, — and  soon  came  to  the  end  of  it  in  a  small 
grassy  circle,  with  a  cottage  or  two,  where  a  foot- 
path strikes  off  across  the  fields. 

Why  did  I  never  come  here  before,  I  thought. 
Through  a  gap  in  the  hedge  I  saw  a  large  broad 
pasture,  fringed  in  the  far  distance  with  full-foliaged, 
rotund  elms  in  thick  leaf;  a  row  of  willows  on 
the  horizon  marked  the  track  of  a  stream.  In  the 
pasture  in  front  of  me  was  a  broad  oblong  pool 
of  water  with  water-lilies  ;  down  one  side  ran  a 
row  of  huge  horse-chestnuts,  and  the  end  was  rich 
in  elders  full  of  flat  white  cakes  of  blossom.  In 
the  field  grazed  an  old  horse;  while  a  pigeon 
sailed   lazily  down    from   the  trees  and  ran  to  the 


THE    REPAIRER   OF   THE    BREACH     183 

pool  to  drink.  That  was  all  there  was  to  see. 
But  it  brought  me  with  a  deep  and  inexplicable 
thrill  close  to  the  heart  of  the  old,  kindly,  patient 
Earth,  the  mother  and  the  mistress  and  the  servant 
of  all — she  who  allows  us  to  tear  and  rend  her 
for  our  own  paltry  ends,  and  then  sets,  how  sweetly 
and  tranquilly,  to  work,  with  what  a  sense  of  in- 
exhaustible leisure,  to  paint  and  mellow  and  adorn 
the  rude  and  bleeding  gaps.  We  tear  up  a  copse, 
and  she  fills  the  ugly  scars  in  the  spring  with  a 
crop  of  fresh  flowers — of  flowers,  perhaps,  which 
are  not  seen  in  the  neighbourhood,  but  whose  seeds 
have  lain  vital  and  moist  in  the  ground,  but  too 
deep  to  know  the  impulse  born  of  the  spring  sun. 
Yet  now  they  burst  their  armoured  mail,  and  send 
a  thin,  white,  wormlike  arm  to  the  top,  which,  as 
soon  as  it  passes  into  the  light,  drinks  from  the  rays 
the  green  flush  that  it  chooses  to  hide  its  nakedness. 
We  dig  a  pool  in  the  crumbling  marl.  At  the  time 
the  wound  seems  irreparable ;  the  ugly,  slobbered 
banks  grin  at  us  like  death  ;  the  ground  is  full  of 
footprints  and  slime,  broken  roots  and  bedabbled 
leaves, — and  next  year  it  is  all  a  paradise  of  green 
and  luscious  water-plants,  with  a  hundred  quiet 
lives   being   lived   there,    of  snail   and    worm   and 


i84  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

beetle,  as  though  the  place  had  never  been  dis- 
turbed. We  build  a  raw  red  house  with  an  in- 
supportably  geometrical  outline,  the  hue  of  the 
vicious  fire  still  in  the  bricks ;  pass  fifty  years,  and 
the  bricks  are  mellow  and  soft,  plastered  with 
orange  rosettes  or  grey  filaments  of  lichen;  the 
ugly  window  frames  are  blistered  and  warped ;  the 
roof  has  taken  a  soft  and  yielding  outline — all  is 
in  peace  and  harmony  with  the  green  world  in 
which  it  sits. 

I  never  saw  this  more  beautifully  illustrated 
than  once,  when  a  great  house  in  Whitehall  was 
destroyed,  and  heaped  up  in  a  hideous  rockery 
of  bricks.  All  through  the  winter  these  raw  ruins, 
partly  concealed  by  a  rough  hoarding,  tainted  the 
view ;  but  as  soon  as  spring  returned,  from  every 
inch  of  grit  rose  a  forest  of  green  stalks  of  willow- 
herb,  each  in  summer  to  be  crowned  with  a  spire 
of  fantastic  crimson  flowers,  and  to  pass  a  little  later 
into  those  graceful,  ghostly  husks  that  shiver  in  the 
wind.  Centuries  must  have  passed  since  willow-herb 
had  grown  on  that  spot.  Had  they  laid  dormant, 
these  hopeful  seeds,  or  had  they  been  wafted  along 
dusty  streets  and  high  in  air  over  sun-scorched 
spaces.-*       Nature    at    all    events    had    seen     her 


SAD    ASSOCIATIONS  185 

chance,  and  done  her  work  patiently  and  wisely 
as  ever. 

But  to  return  to  my  lane-end.  How  strange 
and  deep  are  the  impressions  of  a  deep  and  in- 
violate peace  that  some  quiet  corner  like  this 
gives  to  the  restless  spirit!  It  can  never  be  so 
with  the  scenes  that  have  grown  familiar,  where 
we  have  carried  about  with  us  the  burden  of 
private  cares — the  symptoms  of  the  disease  of 
life.  In  any  house  where  we  have  lived,  every 
corner,  however  peaceful  and  beautiful  in  itself, 
is  bound  to  be  gradually  soaked,  as  it  were,  in 
the  miseries  of  life,  to  conceal  its  beauties  under 
the  accretion  of  sordid  associations. 

This  room  we  connect  with  some  sad  misunder- 
standing. There  we  gave  way  to  some  petty  passion 
of  resentment,  of  jealousy,  of  irritation,  or  vainly 
tried  to  pacify  some  similar  outbreak  from  one  we 
loved.  This  is  the  torture  of  imagination  ;  to  feel 
the  beauty  of  sight  and  sound,  we  must  be  sensitive  ; 
and  if  we  are  sensitive,  we  carry  about  the  shadow 
with  us — the  capacity  for  self-torment,  the  struggle 
of  the  ideal  with  the  passing  mood. 

I  have  sometimes  climbed  to  the  top  of  a  hill 
and  looked  into  some  unknown  and  placid  valley, 


i86  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

with  field  and  wood  and  rivulet  and  the  homes  of 
men.  I  have  seen  the  figures  of  men  and  oxen 
move  sedately  about  those  quiet  fields.  Often,  too, 
gliding  at  evening  in  a  train  through  a  pastoral 
country  when  the  setting  sun  bathes  all  things  in 
genial  light  and  contented  shade,  I  have  felt  the 
same  thought.  "  How  peaceful,  how  simple  life 
would  be,  nay,  must  be,  here."  Only  very  gradu- 
ally, as  life  goes  on,  does  it  dawn  upon  the  soul  that 
the  trouble  lies  deeper,  and  that  though  surrounded 
by  the  most  unimagined  peace,  the  same  fret,  the 
same  beating  of  restless  wings,  the  same  delays 
attend  us.  That  dreamt-of  peace  can  hardly  be 
attained.  The  most  we  can  do  is  to  enjoy  it  to 
the  utmost  when  it  is  with  us ;  and  when  it  takes 
its  flight,  and  leaves  us  dumb,  discontented,  peevish, 
to  quench  the  sordid  thought  in  resolute  silence^ 
to  curb  the  grating  mood,  to  battle  mutely  with 
the  cowering  fear ;  and  so  to  escape  investing  the 
house  and  the  garden  that  we  love  with  the 
poisonous  and  bitter  associations  that  strike  the 
beauty  out  of  the  fairest  scene. 


27 

September  20,  1894. 
I  HAD  to-day  a  strange  little  instance  of  the  patient, 
immutable  habit  of  nature.  Some  years  ago  there 
was  a  particular  walk  of  which  I  was  fond  ;  it  led 
through  pastures,  by  shady  wood-ends,  and  came 
out  eventually  on  a  bridge  that  spanned  the  line. 
Here  I  often  went  to  see  a  certain  express  pass ; 
there  was  something  thrilling  in  the  silent  cutting, 
the  beckoning,  ghostly  arm  of  the  high  signal,  the 
faint  far-off  murmur,  and  then  the  roar  of  the  great 
train  forging  past.  It  was  a  breath  from  the 
world. 

On  the  parapet  of  the  bridge,  grey  with  close- 
grained  lichen,  there  lived  a  numerous  colony  of 
little  crimson  spiders.  What  they  did  I  never  could 
discern  ;  they  wandered  aimlessly  about  hither  and 
thither,  in  a  sort  of  feeble,  blind  haste  ;  if  they  ever 
encountered  each  other  on  their  rambles,  they 
stopped,    twiddled    horns,    and    fled    in    a    sudden 

horror ;    they  never  seemed   to   eat   or   sleep,    and 

187 


i88  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

even  continued  their  endless  peregrinations  in  the 
middle  of  heavy  showers,  which  flicked  them 
quivering  to  death. 

I  used  to  amuse  myself  with  thinking  how  one 
had  but  to  alter  the  scale,  so  to  speak,  and  what 
appalling,  intolerable  monsters  these  would  become. 
Think  of  it !  huge  crimson  shapeless  masses,  with 
strong  wiry  legs,  and  waving  mandibles,  tramping 
silently  over  the  grey  veldt,  and  perhaps  preying 
on  minute  luckless  insects,  which  would  flee  before 
them  in  vain. 

One  day  I  walked  on  ahead,  leaving  a  companion 
to  follow.  He  did  follow,  and  joined  me  on  the 
bridge  —  bringing  heavy  tidings  which  had  just 
arrived  after  I  left  home. 

The  place  grew  to  me  so  inseparably  connected 
with  the  horror  of  the  news  that  I  instinctively 
abandoned  it ;  but  to-day,  finding  myself  close  to 
the  place — nearly  ten  years  had  passed  without  my 
visiting  it — I  turned  aside,  musing  on  the  old  sad- 
ness, with  something  in  my  heart  of  the  soft  regret 
that  a  sorrow  wears  when  seen  through  the  haze 
of  years. 

There  was  the  place,  just  the  same ;  I  bent  to 
see  a  passing  train  and  (I   had  forgotten  all  about 


THEREDSPIDER  189 

them)  there  were  my  red  spiders  still  pursuing  their 
aimless  perambulations.  But  who  can  tell  the 
dynasties,  the  genealogies  that  had  bridged  the 
interval  ? 

The  red  spider  has  no  great  use  in  the  world, 
as  far  as  I  know.  But  he  has  every  right  to  be 
there,  and  to  enjoy  the  sun  falling  so  warm  on  the 
stone.  I  wonder  what  he  thinks  about  it  all  ?  For 
me,  he  has  become  the  type  of  the  patient,  pretty 
fancies  of  nature,  so  persistently  pursued,  so  void  of 
moral,  so  deliciously  fantastic  and  useless — but  after 
all,  what  am  I  to  talk  of  usefulness  ? 

Spider  and  man,  man  and  spider — and  to  the 
pitying,  tender  mind  of  God,  the  brisk  spider  on  his 
ledge,  and  the  dull,  wistful,  middle-aged  man  who 
loiters  looking  about  him,  wondering  and  waiting, 
are  much  the  same.  He  has  a  careful  thought  of 
each,  I  know  : — 

To  both  alike  the  darkness  and  the  day, 

The  sunshine  and  the  flowers, 
We  draw  sad  comfort,  thinking  we  obey 

A  deeper  will  than  ours. 


28 

August  4,  1895. 
Just  such  another  picture  lingers  with  me,  for  no 
very  defined  reason.  It  was  an  August  night ;  I 
had  gone  to  rest  with  the  wind  sighing  and  buffet- 
ing against  my  windows,  but  when  I  awoke  with 
a  start,  deep  in  the  night,  roused,  it  seemed, 
as  by  footsteps  in  the  air  and  a  sudden  hollow 
calling  of  airy  voices,  it  was  utterly  still  outside.  I 
drew  aside  my  heavy  tapestry  curtain,  and  lo !  it 
was  the  dawn.  A  faint  upward  gush  of  lemon- 
coloured  light  edged  the  eastern  hills.  The  air  as 
I  threw  the  casement  wide  was  unutterably  sweet 
and  cool.  In  the  faint  light,  over  the  roof  of  the 
great  barn,  I  saw  what  I  had  seen  a  hundred  times 
before,  a  quiet  wood-end,  upon  which  the  climbing 
hedges  converge.  But  now  it  seemed  to  lie  there 
in  a  pure  and  silent  dream,  sleeping  a  light  sleep, 
waiting  contentedly  for  the  dawn  and  smiling  softly 
to  itself.  Over  the  fields  lay  little  wreaths  of  mist, 
and  beyond  the  wood,  hills  of  faintest  blue,  the  hills 


190 


THE    DAWN  191 

of  dreamland,  where  it  seems  as  if  no  harsh  wind 
could  blow  or  cold  rain  fall.  I  felt  as  though  I 
stood  to  watch  the  stainless  slumber  of  one  I 
loved,  and  was  permitted  by  some  happy  and  holy 
chance  to  see  for  once  the  unuttered  peace  that 
earth  enjoys  in  her  lonely  and  unwatched  hours. 
Too  often,  alas  1  one  carries  into  the  fairest  scenes 
a  turmoil  of  spirit,  a  clouded  mind  that  breaks  and 
mars  the  spell.  But  here  it  was  not  so  ;  I  gazed 
upon  the  hushed  eyes  of  the  earth,  and  heard  her 
sleeping  breath  ;  and,  as  the  height  of  blessing,  I 
seemed  myself  to  have  left  for  a  moment  the  past 
behind,  to  have  no  overshadowing  from  the  future, 
but  to  live  only  in  the  inviolate  moment,  clear-eyed 
and  clean-hearted,  to  see  the  earth  in  her  holiest 
and  most  secluded  sanctuary,  unsuspicious  and  un- 
troubled, bathed  in  the  light  and  careless  slumber 
of  eternal  youth,  in  that  delicious  oblivion  that 
fences  day  from  weary  day. 

In  the  jaded  morning  light  the  glory  was 
faded,  and  the  little  wood  wore  its  usual  work- 
aday look,  the  face  it  bears  before  the  world  ;  but 
I,  I  had  seen  it  in  its  golden  dreams;  I  knew  its 
secret,  and  it  could  not  deceive  me ;  it  had  yielded 
to  me  unawares  its  sublimest  confidence,  and  how- 


192  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

ever  it  might  masquerade  as  a  commonplace  wood, 
a  covert  for  game,  a  commercial  item  in  an  estate- 
book,  known  by  some  homely  name,  I  had  seen  it 
once  undisguised,  and  knew  it  as  one  of  the  porches 
of  heaven. 


29 

April  ^^  1896. 
It  seems  a  futile  task  to  say  anything  about,  the 
spring  ;  yet  poets  and  romancers  make  no  apologies 
for  treating  of  love,  which  is  an  old  and  familiar 
phenomenon  enough.  And  I  declare  that  the  won- 
der of  spring,  so  far  from  growing  familiar,  strikes 
upon  the  mind  with  a  bewildering  strangeness, 
a  rapturous  surprise,  which  is  greater  every  year. 
Every  spring  I  say  to  myself  that  I  never  realised 
before  what  a  miraculous,  what  an  astounding 
thing  is  the  sudden  conspiracy  of  trees  and  flowers, 
hatched  so  insensibly,  and  carried  out  so  punctually, 
to  leap  into  life  and  loveliness  together.  The 
velvety  softness  of  the  grass,  the  mist  of  green  that 
hangs  about  the  copse,  the  swift  weaving  of  the 
climbing  tapestry  that  screens  the  hedgerow-banks, 
the  jewellery  of  flowers  that  sparkle  out  of  all 
sequestered  places  ;  they  are  adorable.  But  this 
early  day  of  spring  is  close  and  heavy,  with  a  slow 
rain   dropping    reluctantly   out   of  the  sky,  a   day 


193 


N 


194  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

when  an  insidious  melancholy  lies  in  wait  for  human 
beings,  a  sense  of  inadequacy,  a  meek  rebellion 
against  all  activity,  bodily  or  mental.  I  walk  slowly 
and  sedately  along  the  sandy  roads  fast  oozing  into 
mire.  There  is  a  sense  of  expectancy  in  the  air ; 
tree  and  flower  are  dispirited  too,  oppressed  with 
heaviness,  and  yet  gratefully  conscious,  as  I  am 
not,  of  the  divine  storage  of  that  pure  and  subtle 
element  that  is  taking  place  for  their  benefit. 
"  Praise  God,"  said  Saint  Francis,  "  for  our  sister 
the  water,  for  she  is  very  serviceable  to  us  and 
humble  and  clean."  Yes,  we  give  thanks !  but, 
alas !  to  sit  still  and  be  pumped  into,  as  Carlyle 
said  of  Coleridge's  conversation,  can  never  be  an 
enlivening  process. 

Yet  would  that  the  soul  could  gratefully  re- 
cognise her  own  rainy  days ;  could  droop,  like 
Nature,  with  patient  acquiescence,  with  wise  pas- 
sivity, till  the  wells  of  strength  and  freshness  are 
stored ! 

The  particular  form  of  melancholy  which  I  find 
besets  me  on  these  sad  reflective  mornings,  is  to 
compare  my  vague  ambitions  with  my  concrete 
performances.  I  will  not  say  that  in  my  dreamful 
youth   I   cherished  the  idea  of  swaying  the  world. 


SUBTLE    SUPERIORITIES  195 

I  never  expected  to  play  a  brave  part  on  the  public 
stage.  Political  and  military  life — the  two  careers 
which  ripple  communities  to  the  verge,  never  came 
within  the  range  of  my  possibilities.  But  I  think 
that  I  was  conscious — as  most  intelligent  young 
creatures  undoubtedly  are — of  a  subtle  superiority 
to  other  people.  An  ingenious  preacher  once  said 
that  we  cannot  easily  delude  ourselves  into  the 
belief  that  we  are  richer,  taller,  more  handsome, 
or  even  wiser,  better,  abler,  and  more  capable 
than  other  people,  but  we  can  and  do  very  easily 
nourish  a  secret  belief  that  we  are  more  interesting 
than  others.  Such  an  illusion  has  a  marvellous 
vitality ;  it  has  a  delicate  power  of  resisting  the 
rude  lessons  to  the  contrary  which  contact  with 
the  world  would  teach  us  ;  and  I  should  hardly  like 
to  confess  how  ill  I  have  learned  my  lesson.  I 
realise,  of  course,  that  I  have  done  little  to  estab- 
lish this  superiority  in  the  eyes  of  others  ;  but  I  find 
it  hard  to  disabuse  myself  of  the  vague  belief  that 
if  only  I  had  the  art  of  more  popular  and  definite 
expression,  if  only  the  world  had  a  little  more 
leisure  to  look  in  sequestered  nooks  for  delicate 
flowers  of  thought  and  temperament,  then  it  might  be 
realised  how  exquisite  a  nature  is  here  neglected. 


196  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

In  saying  this  I  am  admitting  the  reader  to 
the  Inmost  penetralia  of  thought.  I  frankly  confess 
that  in  my  robust  and  equable  moments  I  do  re- 
cognise the  broken  edge  of  my  life,  and  what  a 
very  poor  thing  I  have  made  of  it — but,  for  all 
that,  it  is  my  honest  belief  that  we  most  of  us 
have  in  our  hearts  that  inmost  shrine  of  egotism, 
where  the  fire  burns  clear  and  fragrant  before  an 
idealised  image  of  self;  and  I  go  further,  and 
say  that  I  believe  this  to  be  a  wholesome  and 
valuable  thing,  because  it  is  of  the  essence  of 
self-respect,  and  gives  us  a  feeble  impulse  in  the 
direction  of  virtue  and  faith.  If  a  man  ever  came 
to  realise  exactly  his  place  in  the  world,  as  others 
realise  it,  how  feeble,  how  uninteresting,  how 
ludicrously  unnecessary  he  is,  and  with  what  a 
speedy  unconcern  others  would  accommodate  them- 
selves to  his  immediate  disappearance,  he  would 
sink  into  an  abyss  of  gloom  out  of  which  nothing 
would  lift  him.  It  is  one  of  the  divine  uses  of 
love,  that  it  glorifies  life  by  restoring  and  raising 
one's  self-esteem. 

In  the  dejected  reveries  of  such  languorous 
spring  days  as  these,  no  such  robust  egotism  as  I 
have  above  represented  comes  to  my  aid.     I  see 


THE    HARD    TRUTH  197 

myself  stealing  along,  a  shy,  tarnished  thing,  a 
blot  among  the  fresh  hopes  and  tender  dreams 
that  smile  on  every  bank.  The  pitiful  fabric  of 
my  life  is  mercilessly  unveiled ;  here  I  loiter,  a 
lonely,  shabby  man,  bruised  by  contact  with  the 
world,  dilatory,  dumb,  timid,  registering  tea-table 
triumphs,  local  complacencies,  provincial  superiori- 
ties— spending  sheltered  days  in  such  comfortable 
dreams  as  are  born  of  warm  fires,  ample  meals,  soft 
easy-chairs,  and  congratulating  myself  on  poetical 
potentialities,  without  any  awkward  necessities  of 
translating  my  dreams  into  corrective  action — or  else 
discharging  homely  duties  with  an  almost  sacer- 
dotal solemnity,  and  dignifying  with  the  title  of 
religious  quietism  what  is  done  by  hundreds  of 
people  instinctively  and  simply  and  without  pre- 
tentiousness. If  I  raved  against  my  limitations, 
deemed  my  cage  a  prison,  beat  myself  sick  against 
the  bars,  I  might  then  claim  to  be  a  fiery  and 
ardent  soul ;  but  I  cannot  honestly  do  this  ;  and  I 
must  comfort  myself  with  the  thought  that  possibly 
the  ill-health,  which  necessitates  my  retirement, 
compensates  for  the  disabilities  it  inflicts  on  me,  by 
removing  the  stimulus  which  would  make  my 
prison  insupportable. 


198  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

In  this  agreeable  frame  of  mind  I  drew  near 
home  and  stood  awhile  on  the  deserted  bowling- 
green  with  its  elder  -  thickets,  its  little  grassy- 
terraces,  its  air  of  regretful  wildness,  so  often 
worn  by  a  place  that  has  been  tamed  by  civilisa- 
tion and  has  not  quite  reverted  to  its  native 
savagery.  A  thrush  sang  with  incredible  clear- 
ness, repeating  a  luscious  phrase  often  enough  to 
establish  its  precision  of  form,  and  yet  not  often 
enough  to  satiate — a  triumph  of  instinctive  art. 

These  thrushes  are  great  favourites  of  mine ; 
I  often  sit,  on  a  dewy  morning,  to  watch  them 
hunting.  They  hop  lightly  along,  till  they  espy 
a  worm  lying  in  blissful  luxury  out  of  his  hole ; 
two  long  hops,  and  they  are  upon  him  ;  he,  using 
all  his  retractile  might,  clings  to  his  home,  but  the 
thrush  sets  his  feet  firm  in  the  broad  stride  of 
the  Greek  warrior,  gives  a  mighty  tug — you  can 
see  the  viscous  elastic  thread  strain — and  the  worm 
is  stretched  writhing  on  the  grass.  What  are  the 
dim  dreams  of  the  poor  reptile,  I  wonder ;  does  he 
regret  his  cool  burrow,  "and  youth  and  strength 
and  this  delightful  world?" — no,  I  think  it  is  a 
stoical  resignation.  For  a  moment  the  thrush 
takes  no  notice  of  him,   but  surveys  the  horizon 


THE    BONDAGE    OF    A    BIRD         199 

with  a  caution  which  the  excitement  of  the  chase 
has  for  an  instant  imprudently  diverted.  Then 
the  meal  begins,  with  horrid  leisureliness. 

But  it  is  strange  to  note  the  perpetual  instinctive 
consciousness  of  danger  which  besets  birds  thus  in 
the  open ;  they  must  live  in  a  tension  of  nervous 
watchfulness  which  would  depress  a  human  being 
into  melancholia.  There  is  no  absorbed  gobbling ; 
between  every  mouthful  the  little  head  with  its 
beady  eyes  swings  right  and  left  to  see  that  all  is 
clear ;  and  he  is  for  ever  changing  his  position  and 
seldom  fronts  the  same  way  for  two  seconds 
together. 

Do  we  realise  what  it  must  be  to  live,  as  even 
these  sheltered  birds  do  in  a  quiet  garden,  with  the 
fear  of  attack  and  death  hanging  over  them  from 
morning  to  night  ? 

Another  fact  that  these  thrushes  have  taueht  me 
is  the  extreme  narrowness  of  their  self-chosen  world. 
They  are  born  and  live  within  the  compass  of  a  few 
yards.  We  are  apt  to  envy  a  bird  the  power  of 
changing  his  horizon,  of  soaring  above  the  world, 
and  choosing  for  his  home  the  one  spot  he  desires. 
Think  what  our  life  would  be  if,  without  luggage, 
without  encumbrances,  we  could  rise  in  the  air  and. 


200  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

winging  our  way  out  to  the  horizon,  choose  some 
sequestered  valley,  and  there,  without  house,  without 
rates  and  taxes,  abide,  with  water  babbling  in  its 
channel  and  food  abundant.     Yet  it  is  far  otherwise. 
One  of  my  thrushes  has  a  white  feather  in  his  wing  ; 
he  was  hatched  out  in  a  big  syringa  which  stands 
above  the  bowling-green  :   and  though  I  have  ob- 
served the  birds  all  about  my  few  acres  carefully 
enough,   I    have   never  seen  this  particular  thrush 
anywhere  but  on  the  lawn.     He  never  seems  even  to 
cross  the  wall  into  the  garden  ;    he  has  a  favourite 
bush  to  roost  in,  and  another  where  he  sometimes 
sings :  at  times  he  beats  along  the  privet  hedge,  or 
in  the  broad  border,  but  he  generally  hops  about 
the  lawn,  and  I  do  not  think  he  has  ever  ventured 
beyond  it.      He  works  hard  for  his  living  too ;  he  is 
up  at  dawn,  and  till  early  afternoon  he  is  generally 
engaged  in  foraging.     He  will  die,  I  suppose,  in  the 
garden,  though  how  his  body  is  disposed  of  is  a 
mystery  to  me. 

He  takes  the  limitations  of  his  life  just  as  he 
finds  them  ;  he  never  seems  to  think  he  would  like 
to  be  otherwise ;  but  he  works  diligently  for  his 
living,  he  sings  a  grateful  song,  he  sleeps  well, 
he  does  not  compare    himself  with  other  birds  or 


THE    SOUL    OF    A    THRUSH  201 

wish  his  lot  was  different — he  has  no  regrets,  no 
hopes,  and  few  cares.  Still  less  has  he  any  philan- 
thropic designs  of  raising  the  tone  of  his  brother 
thrushes,  or  directing  a  mission  among  the  quarrel- 
some sparrows.  Sometimes  he  fights  a  round  or 
two,  and  when  the  spring  comes,  stirred  by  delicious 
longings,  he  will  build  a  nest,  devote  the  food  he 
would  like  to  devour  to  his  beady-eyed,  yellow- 
lipped  young,  and  die  as  he  has  lived.  There  is  a 
good  deal  to  be  said  for  this  brave  and  honest  life, 
and  especially  for  the  bright  and  wholesome  music 
which  he  makes  within  the  thickets.  I  do  not  know 
that  it  can  be  improved  upon. 


30 

Aug.  19,  1898. 
There  is  a  simple  form  of  expedition  of  which  I  am 
very  fond  ;  that  is  the  leisurely  visiting  of  some 
rustic  church  in  the  neighbourhood.  They  are 
often  very  beautifully  placed — sometimes  they  stand 
high  on  the  ridges,  and  bear  a  bold  testimony  to  the 
faith ;  sometimes  they  lie  nestled  in  trees,  hidden  in 
valleys,  as  if  to  show  it  is  possible  to  be  holy  and 
beautiful,  though  unseen.  Sometimes  they  are  the 
central  ornament  of  a  village  street ;  there  generally 
seems  some  simple  and  tender  reason  for  their 
position ;  but  the  more  populous  their  neighbour- 
hood, the  more  they  have  suffered  from  the  zeal 
of  the  restorer.  What  I  love  best  of  all  is  a  church 
that  stands  a  little  apart,  sheltered  in  wood,  dream- 
ing by  itself,  and  guarding  its  tranquil  and  grateful 
secret — **  secretum  meum  mihi^'  it  seems  to  say. 

I  like  to  loiter  in  the  churchyard  ground,  to  step 
over  the  hillocks,  to  read  the  artless  epitaphs  on 
slanting  tombs  ;  it  is  not  a  morbid  taste,  for  if  there 


GOD'S    ACRE  203 

is  one  feeling  more  than  another  that  such  a  visit 
removes  and  tranquillises,  it  is  the  fear  of  death. 
Death  here  appears  in  its  most  peaceful  light ;  it 
seems  so  necessary,  so  common,  so  quiet  and  in- 
evitable an  end,  like  a  haven  after  a  troubled  sea. 
Here  all  the  sad  and  unhappy  incidents  of  mortality 
are  forgotten,  and  death  appears  only  in  the  light 
of  a  tender  and  dreamful  sleep. 

Better  still  is  the  grateful  coolness  of  the  church 
itself;  here  one  can  trace  in  the  epitaphs  the  for- 
tunes of  a  family — one  can  see  the  graves  of  old 
squires  who  have  walked  over  their  own  fields, 
talked  with  their  neighbours,  shot,  hunted,  'eaten, 
drunk,  have  loved  and  been  loved,  and  have  yielded 
their  place  in  the  fulness  of  days  to  those  that 
have  come  after  them.  Very  moving,  too,  are  the 
evidences  of  the  sincere  grief,  which  underlies  the 
pompous  phraseology  of  the  marble  monument  with 
its  urns  and  cherubs.  I  love  to  read  the  long  list 
of  homely  virtues  attributed  by  the  living  to  the 
dead  in  the  depth  of  sorrow,  and  to  believe  them 
true.  Then  there  are  records  of  untimely  deaths, — 
the  young  wife,  the  soldier  in  his  prime,  the  boy  or 
girl  who  have  died  unstained  by  life,  and  about  whom 
clings  the  passionate   remembrance  of  the   happy 


204  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

days  that  are  no  more.  Such  records  as  those  do 
not  preach  the  lesson  of  vanity  and  decay,  but  the 
lesson  of  pure  and  grateful  resignation,  the  faith 
that  the  God  who  made  the  world  so  beautiful,  and 
filled  it  so  full  of  happiness,  has  surprises  in  store 
for  His  children,  in  a  world  undreamed  of. 

One  monument  in  a  church  not  far  from  Golden 
End  always  brings  tears  to  my  eyes  ;  there  is  a 
chapel  in  the  aisle,  the  mausoleum  of  an  ancient 
family,  where  mouldering  banners  and  pennons 
hang  in  the  gloom  ;  in  the  centre  of  the  chapel 
is  an  altar-tomb,  on  which  lies  the  figure  of  a 
young  boy,  thirteen  years  old,  the  inscription  says. 
He  reclines  on  one  arm,  he  has  a  delicately  carved 
linen  shirt  that  leaves  the  slender  neck  free,  and 
he  is  wrapped  in  a  loose  gown  ;  he  looks  upward 
toward  the  east,  his  long  hair  falling  over  his 
shoulders,  his  thin  and  shapely  hand  upon  his  knee. 
On  each  side  of  the  tomb,  kneeling  on  marble 
cushions  on  the  ledge,  are  his  father  and  mother, 
an  earl  and  countess.  The  mother,  in  the  stately 
costume  of  a  bygone  court,  with  hair  carefully 
draped,  watches  the  face  of  the  child  with  a  look  in 
which  love  seems  to  have  cast  out  grief.  The  earl 
in  armour,  a  strongly-built,  soldier-like  figure,  looks 


THE    MONUMENT  205 

across  the  boy's  knee  at  his  wife's  face,  but  in  his 
expression — I  know  not  if  it  be  art — there  seems  to 
be  a  look  of  rebellious  sorrow,  of  thwarted  pride. 
All  his  wealth  and  state  could  not  keep  his  darling 
with  him,  and  he  does  not  seem  to  understand. 
There  have  they  knelt,  the  little  group,  for  over 
two  centuries,  waiting  and  watching,  and  one  is  glad 
to  think  that  they  know  now  whatever  there  is 
to  know.  Outside  the  golden  afternoon  slants 
across  the  headstones,  and  the  birds  twitter  in  the 
ivy,  while  a  full  stream  winds  below  through  the 
meadows  that  once  were  theirs. 

Such  a  contemplation  does  not  withdraw  one 
from  life  or  tend  to  give  a  false  view  of  its  energies  ; 
it  does  not  forbid  one  to  act,  to  love,  to  live  ;  it  only 
gilds  with  a  solemn  radiance  the  cloud  that  over- 
shadows us  all,  the  darkness  of  the  inevitable  end. 
Face  to  face  with  the  lacrimcB  reruni  in  so  simple 
and  tender  a  form,  the  heavy  words  Memento  Jl/ori 
fall  upon  the  heart  not  as  a  sad  and  harsh  inter- 
ruption of  worldly  dreams  and  fancies,  but  as  a  deep 
pedal  note  upon  a  sweet  organ,  giving  strength  and 
fulness  and  balance  to  the  dying  away  of  the  last 
grave  and  gentle  chord. 


31 

If  any  one  whose  eye  may  fall  upon  these  pages 
be  absolutely  equable  of  temperament,  serene,  con- 
tented, the  same  one  day  as  another,  as  Dr.  Johnson 
said  of  Reynolds,  let  him  not  read  this  chapter — he 
will  think  it  a  mere  cry  in  the  dark,  better  smothered 
in  the  bedclothes,  an  unmanly  piece  of  morbid 
pathology,  a  secret  and  sordid  disease  better  un- 
divulged,  on  which  all  persons  of  proper  pride 
should  hold  their  peace. 

Well,  it  is  not  for  him  that  I  write ;  there  are 
books  and  books,  and  even  chapters  and  chapters, 
just  as  there  are  people  and  people.  I  myself  avoid 
books  dealing  with  health  and  disease.  I  used 
when  younger  to  be  unable  to  resist  the  temptation 
of  a  medical  book ;  but  now  I  am  wiser,  and  if  I 
sometimes  yield  to  the  temptation,  it  is  with  a  back- 
ward glancing  eye  and  a  cautious  step.  And  I  will 
say  that  I  generally  put  back  the  book  with  a  snap, 

in  a  moment,  as  though  a  snake  had  stung  me.     But 

•06 


FEARS  207 

there  will  be  no  pathology  here  —  nothing  but  a 
patient  effort  to  look  a  failing  in  the  face,  and  to 
suggest  a  remedy. 

I  speak  to  the  initiated,  to  those  who  have  gone 
down  into  the  dark  cave,  and  seen  the  fire  burn  low 
in  the  shrine,  and  watched  aghast  the  formless, 
mouldering  things — hideous  implements  are  they, 
or  mere  weapons  ? — that  hang  upon  the  walls. 

Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  dwell,  perhaps  for 
days  together,  under  the  shadow  of  a  fear.-*  Per- 
haps a  definite  fear — a  fear  of  poverty,  or  a  fear  of 
obloquy,  or  a  fear  of  harshness,  or  a  fear  of  pain,  or 
a  fear  of  disease — or,  worse  than  all,  a  boding,  mis- 
shapen, sullen  dread  which  has  no  definite  cause, 
and  is  therefore  the  harder  to  resist. 

These  moods,  I  say  it  with  gratitude  for  myself 
and  for  the  encouragement  of  others,  tend  to 
diminish  in  acuteness  and  in  frequency  as  I  grow 
older.  They  are  now,  as  ever,  preluded  by  dreams 
of  a  singular  kind,  dreams  of  rapid  and  confused 
action,  dreams  of  a  romantic  and  exaggerated  pic- 
torial character — huge  mountain  ranges,  lofty  and 
venerable  buildings,  landscapes  of  incredible  beauty, 
gardens  of  unimaginable  luxuriance,  which  pass  with 
incredible  rapidity  before  the  mind.      I  will  indicate 


2o8  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

two  of  these  in  detail.  I  was  in  a  vessel  like  a  yacht, 
armed  with  a  massive  steel  prow  like  a  ram,  which 
moved  in  some  aerial  fashion  over  a  landscape, 
skimming  it  seemed  to  me  but  a  few  feet  above  the 
ground.  A  tall  man  of  benignant  aspect  stood 
upon  the  bridge,  and  directed  the  operations  of 
the  unseen  navigator.  We  ascended  a  heathery 
valley,  and  presently  encountered  snow-drifts, 
upon  which  the  vessel  seemed  to  settle  down  to 
her  full  speed ;  at  last  we  entered  a  prodigious 
snowfield,  with  vast  ridged  snow-waves  extending 
in  every  direction  for  miles  ;  the  vessel  ran  not  over 
but  through  these  waves,  sending  up  huge  spouts  of 
snow  which  fell  in  cool  showers  upon  my  head  and 
hands,  while  the  tinkle  of  dry  ice  fragments  made 
a  perpetual  low  music.  At  last  we  stopped  and  I 
descended  on  to  the  plateau.  Far  ahead,  through 
rolling  clouds,  I  saw  the  black  snow-crowned  heights 
of  a  mountain,  loftier  than  any  seen  by  human 
eye,  and  for  leagues  round  me  lay  the  interminable 
waste  of  snow.  I  was  aroused  from  my  absorption 
by  a  voice  behind  me  ;  the  vessel  started  again  on 
her  course  with  a  leap  like  a  porpoise,  and  though  I 
screamed  aloud  to  stop  her,  I  saw  her,  in  a  few 
seconds,  many  yards  ahead,  describing  great  curves 


DREAMS  209 

as  she  ran,  with  the  snow  spouting  over  her  like 
a  fountain. 

The  second  was  a  very  different  scene.  I  was  in 
the  vine-clad  alleys  of  some  Italian  garden;  against 
the  still  blue  air  a  single  stone  pine  defined  itself;  I 
walked  along  a  path,  and  turning  a  corner  an  ex- 
quisite conventual  building  of  immense  size,  built  of  a 
light  brown  stone,  revealed  itself  From  all  the  alleys 
round  emerged  troops  of  monastic  figures  in  soft 
white  gowns,  and  a  mellow  chime  of  exceeding  sweet- 
ness floated  from  the  buildinor.  I  saw  that  I  too 
was  robed  like  the  rest ;  but  the  oflidine  figures  out- 
stripped  me  ;  and  arriving  last  at  a  great  iron  portal 
I  found  it  closed,  and  the  strains  of  a  great  organ 
came  drowsily  from  within. 

Then  into  the  dream  falls  a  sudden  sense  of 
despair,  like  an  ashen  cloud  ;  a  feeling  of  incredible 
agony,  intensified  by  the  beauty  of  the  surrounding 
scene,  that  agony  which  feverishly  questions  as  to 
why  so  dark  a  stroke  should  fall  when  the  mind 
seems  at  peace  with  itself  and  lost  in  dreamy 
wonder  at  the  loveliness  all  about  it.  Then  the 
vision  closes,  and  for  a  time  the  mind  battles  with 
dark  waves  of  anguish,  emerging  at  last,  like  a  diver 
from   a  dim    sea,   into  the    waking    consciousness. 


2IO  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

The  sickly  daylight  filters  through  the  window  cur- 
tains and  the  familiar  room  swims  into  sight.  The 
first  thought  is  one  of  unutterable  relief,  which  is 
struck  instantly  out  of  the  mind  by  the  pounce  of 
the  troubled  mood ;  and  then  follows  a  ghastly 
hour,  when  every  possibility  of  horror  and  woe  in- 
tangible presses  in  upon  the  battling  mind.  At  such 
moments  a  definite  difficulty,  a  practical  problem 
would  be  welcome — but  there  is  none ;  the  misery 
is  too  deep  for  thought,  and  even,  when  after  long 
wrestling,  the  knowledge  comes  that  it  is  all  a  sub- 
jective condition,  and  that  there  is  no  adequate 
cause  in  life  or  circumstances  for  this  unmanning 
terror — even  then  it  can  only  be  silently  endured, 
like  the  racking  of  some  fierce  physical  pain. 

The  day  that  succeeds  to  such  a  waking  mood 
is  almost  the  worst  part  of  the  experience.  Shaken 
and  dizzied  by  the  inrush  of  woe,  the  mind  straggles 
wearily  through  hour  after  hour ;  the  familiar  duties 
are  intolerable ;  food  has  no  savour ;  action  and 
thought  no  interest ;  and  if  for  an  hour  the  tired 
head  is  diverted  by  some  passing  event,  or  if, 
oppressed  with  utter  exhaustion,  it  sinks  into  an  un- 
refreshing  slumber,  repose  but  gives  the  strength  to 
suffer — the  accursed  mood  leaps  again,  as  from  an 


WOE  211 

unseen  lair,  upon  the  unnerved  consciousness,  and 
tears  like  some  strange  beast  the  helpless  and  pal- 
pitating soul 

When  first,  at  Cambridge,  I  had  the  woeful  ex- 
periences above  recorded,  I  was  so  unused  to  en- 
durance, so  bewildered  by  suffering,  that  I  think  for 
awhile  I  was  almost  beside  myself.  I  recollect  going 
down  with  some  friends,  in  a  brief  lull  of  misery,  to 
watch  a  football  match,  when  the  horror  seized  me 
in  the  middle  of  a  cheerful  talk  with  such  vehemence, 
that  I  could  only  rush  off  with  a  muttered  word,  and 
return  to  my  rooms,  in  which  I  immured  myself  to 
spend  an  hour  in  an  agony  of  prayer.  Again  I 
recollect  sitting  with  some  of  the  friends  of  my  own 
age  after  hall ;  we  were  smoking  and  talking  peace- 
fully enough — for  some  days  my  torment  had  been 
suspended — when  all  at  once,  out  of  the  secret  dark- 
ness the  terror  leapt  upon  me,  and  after  in  vain 
resisting  it  for  a  few  moments,  I  hurried  away, 
having  just  enough  self-respect  to  glance  at  my 
watch  and  mutter  something  about  a  forgotten 
engagement.  But  worst  of  all  was  a  walk  taken 
with  my  closest  friend  on  a  murky  November  day. 
We  started  in  good  spirits,  when  in  a  moment  the 
accursed  foe  was  upon  me ;  I  hardly  spoke  except 


212  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

for  fitful  questions.  Our  way  led  us  to  a  level  cross- 
ing, beside  a  belt  of  woodland,  where  a  huge  luggage 
train  was  jolting  and  bumping  backwards  and 
forwards.  We  hung  upon  the  gate  ;  and  then,  and 
then  only,  came  upon  me  in  a  flash  an  almost  irre- 
sistible temptation  to  lay  my  head  beneath  the 
ponderous  wheels,  and  end  it  all ;  I  could  only  pray 
in  silence,  and  hurry  from  the  spot  in  speechless 
agitation.  What  wonder  if  I  heard  on  the  following 
day  that  my  friend  complained  that  I  was  altering 
for  the  worse — that  I  had  become  so  sullen  and 
morose  that  it  was  no  use  talking  to  me. 

Gradually,  very  gradually,  the  aching  frost  of 
the  soul  broke  up  and  thawed  ;  little  trifling  en- 
couraging incidents — a  small  success  or  two,  an 
article  accepted  by  a  magazine,  a  friendship,  an 
athletic  victory,  raised  me  step  by  step  out  of  the 
gloom.  One  benefit,  even  at  the  time,  it  brought 
me — an  acute  sensitiveness  to  beauty  both  of  sight 
and  sound.  I  used  to  steal  at  even-song  into  the 
dark  nave  of  King's  Chapel,  and  the  sight  of  the 
screen,  the  flood  of  subdued  light  overflowing  from 
the  choir,  the  carven  angels  with  their  gilded 
trumpets,  penetrated  into  the  soul  with  an  exquisite 
sweetness ;  and  still  more  the  music — whether  the 


THE    BROTHERHOOD    OF    SORROW    213 

low  prelude  with  the  whispering  pedals,  the  severe 
monotone  breaking  into  freshets  of  harmony,  the 
swing  and  richness  of  the  chants,  or  the  elaborate 
beauty  of  some  familiar  magnificat  or  anthem — all 
fell  like  showers  upon  the  arid  sense.  The  music  at 
King's  had  one  characteristic  that  I  have  never 
heard  elsewhere  ;  the  properties  of  the  building  are 
such  that  the  echo  lingers  without  blurring  the  suc- 
cessive chords — not  "loth  to  die,"  I  used  to  think, 
as  Wordsworth  says,  but  sinking  as  it  were  from 
consciousness  to  dream,  and  from  dream  to  death. 

One  further  gain — the  greater — was  that  my 
suffering  did  not,  I  think,  withdraw  me  wholly  into 
myself  and  fence  me  from  the  world  ;  rather  it  gave 
me  a  sense  of  the  brotherhood  of  grief.  I  was  one 
with  all  the  agonies  that  lie  silent  in  the  shadow  of 
life ;  and  though  my  suffering  had  no  tangible 
cause,  yet  I  was  initiated  into  the  fellowship  of  those 
who  bear.  I  understood ; — weak,  faithless,  and 
faulty  as  I  was,  I  was  no  longer  in  the  complacent 
isolation  of  the  strong,  the  successful,  the  selfish, 
and  even  in  my  darkest  hour  I  had  strength  to 
thank  God  for  that. 


32 

Oct.   21,    1898. 

I  HAVE  been  reading  some  of  my  old  diaries  to-day  ; 
and  I  am  tempted  to  try  and  disentangle,  as  far  as 
I  can,  the  motif  that  seems  to  me  to  underlie  my 
simple  life. 

One  question  above  all  others  has  constantly 
recurred  to  my  mind  ;  and  the  answer  to  it  is  the 
sum  of  my  slender  philosophy. 

The  question  then  is  this :  is  a  simple,  useful,  dig- 
nified, happy  life  possible  to  most  of  us  without  the 
stimulus  of  affairs,  of  power,  of  fame  ?  I  answer 
unhesitatingly  that  such  a  life  is  possible.  The 
tendency  of  the  age  is  to  measure  success  by 
publicity,  not  to  think  highly  of  any  person  or  any 
work  unless  it  receives  "recognition,"  to  think  it 
essential  to  happiness  mojistrari  digito,  to  be  in  the 
swim,  to  be  a  personage. 

I  admit  at  once  the  temptation  ;  to  such  suc- 
cessful persons  comes  the  consciousness  of  influence, 
the  feeling  of  power,   the  anxious  civilities  of  the 

•«4 


SUCCESS  215 

undistinguished,  the  radiance  of  self-respect,  the 
atmosphere  of  flattering,  subtle  deference,  the 
seduction  of  which  not  even  the  most  independent 
and  noble  characters  can  escape.  Indeed,  many  an 
influential  man  of  simple  character  and  unpretend- 
ing virtue,  who  rates  such  conveniences  of  life  at 
their  true  value,  and  does  not  pursue  them  as  an 
end,  would  be  disagreeably  conscious  of  the  lack  of 
ih^s^  petits  soins  if  he  adopted  an  unpopular  cause 
or  for  any  reason  forfeited  the  influence  which 
begets  them. 

A  friend  of  mine  came  to  see  me  the  other  day 
fresh  from  a  visit  to  a  great  house.  His  host  was  a 
man  of  high  cabinet  rank,  the  inheritor  of  an  ample 
fortune  and  a  historic  name,  who  has  been  held  by 
his  nearest  friends  to  cling  to  political  life  longer 
than  prudence  would  warrant.  My  friend  told  me 
that  he  had  been  left  alone  one  evening  with  his 
host,  who  had,  half  humorously,  half  seriously, 
indulged  in  a  lengthy  tirade  against  the  pressure  of 
social  duties  and  unproductive  drudgery  that  his 
high  position  involved.  *'  If  they  would  only  let 
me  alone!"  he  said;  "I  think  it  very  hard  that  in 
the  evening  of  my  days  I  cannot  order  my  life  to 
suit   my  tastes.       I    have  served    the   public    long 


2i6  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

enough  ...  I  would  read — how  I  would  read — 
and  when  I  was  bored  I  would  sleep  in  my  chair." 

"  And  yet,"  my  friend  said,  commenting  on  these 
unguarded  statements,  "  I  believe  he  is  the  only 
person  of  his  intimate  circle  who  does  not  know 
that  he  would  be  hopelessly  bored — that  the  things 
he  decries  are  the  very  breath  of  life  to  him.  There 
is  absolutely  no  reason  why  he  should  not  at  once 
and  forever  realise  his  fancied  ideal — and  if  his 
wife  and  children  do  not  urge  him  to  do  so,  it  is 
only  because  they  know  that  he  would  be  absolutely 
miserable."     And  this  is  true  of  many  lives. 

If  the  "recognition,"  of  which  I  have  spoken 
above,  were  only  accorded  to  the  really  eminent,  it 
would  be  a  somewhat  different  matter ;  but  nine- 
tenths  of  the  persons  who  receive  it  are  nothing 
more  than  phantoms,  who  have  set  themselves  to 
pursue  the  glory,  without  the  services  that  ought  to 
earn  it.  A  great  many  people  have  a  strong  taste 
for  power  without  work,  for  dignity  without  responsi- 
bility ;  and  it  is  quite  possible  to  attain  consideration 
if  you  set  yourself  resolutely  to  pursue  it. 

The  temptation  comes  in  a  yet  more  subtle 
form  to  men  of  a  really  high-minded  type,  whose 
chief  preoccupation  is  earnest  work  and  the  secluded 


PURE    AMBITION  217 

pursuit  of  some  high  ideal.  Such  people,  though 
they  do  not  wish  to  fetter  themselves  with  the 
empty  social  duties  that  assail  the  eminent,  yet 
are  tempted  to  wish  to  have  the  refusal  of  them, 
and  to  be  secretly  dissatisfied  if  they  do  not  receive 
this  testimonial  to  the  value  of  their  work.  The 
temptation  is  not  so  vulgar  as  it  seems.  Every  one 
who  is  ambitious  wishes  to  be  effective.  A  man 
does  not  write  books  or  paint  pictures  or  make 
speeches  simply  to  amuse  himself,  to  fill  his  time ; 
and  they  are  few  who  can  genuinely  write,  as  the 
late  Mark  Pattison  wrote  of  a  period  of  his  life, 
that  his  ideal  was  at  one  time  "defiled  and  polluted 
by  literary  ambition." 

Nevertheless,  if  there  is  to  be  any  real  attempt 
to  win  the  inner  peace  of  the  spirit,  such  ambition 
must  be  not  sternly  but  serenely  resisted.  Not 
until  a  man  can  pass  by  the  rewards  of  fame  oculis 
irretortis — "  nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look 
behind  " — is  the  victory  won. 

It  may  be  urged,  in  my  case,  that  the  obscurity 
for  which  I  crave  was  never  likely  to  be  denied  me. 
True  ;  but  at  the  same  time  ambition  in  its  pettiest 
and  most  childish  forms  has  been  and  is  a  real 
temptation  to  me  :    the  ambition  to  dominate  and 


2i8  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

dazzle  my  immediate  circle,  to  stimulate  curiosity 
about  myself,  to  be  considered,  if  not  a  successful 
man,  at  least  a  man  who  might  have  succeeded  if  he 
had  cared  to  try — all  the  temptations  which  are  de- 
picted in  so  masterly  and  merciless  a  way  by  that 
acute  psychologist  Mr.  Henry  James  in  the  character 
of  Gilbert  Osmond  in  the  Portrait  of  a  Lady — to 
all  of  these  I  plead  guilty.  Had  I  not  been  gifted 
with  sufficient  sensitiveness  to  see  how  singularly 
offensive  and  pitiful  such  pretences  are  in  the  case 
of  others,  I  doubt  if  I  should  not  have  succumbed 
— if  indeed  I  have  not  somewhat  succumbed — to 
them. 

Indeed,  to  some  morbid  natures  such  pretences 
are  vital — nay,  self-respect  would  be  impossible 
without  them.  I  know  a  lady  who,  like  Mrs.  Wit- 
titerly,  is  really  kept  alive  by  the  excitement  of 
being  an  invalid.  If  she  had  not  been  so  ill  she 
would  have  died  years  ago.  I  know  a  worthy 
gentleman  who  lives  in  London  and  spends  his 
time  in  hurrying  from  house  to  house  lamenting 
how  little  time  he  can  get  to  do  what  he  really 
enjoys— to  read  or  think.  Another  has  come  to 
my  mind  who  lives  in  a  charming  house  in  the 
country,  and  by  dint  of  inviting  a  few  second-rate 


OUR    OWN    IMPORTANCE  219 

literary  and  artistic  people  to  his  house  and  enter- 
taining them  royally,  believes  himself  to  be  at  the 
very  centre  of  literary  and  artistic  life,  and  essential 
to  its  continuance.  These  are  harmless  lives,  not 
unhappy,  not  useless ;  based,  it  is  true,  upon  a  false 
conception  of  the  relative  importance  of  their  own 
existence,  but  then  is  there  one  of  us — the  most 
hard  -  working,  influential,  useful  person  in  the 
world — who  does  not  exaggerate  his  own  import- 
ance? Does  any  one  realise  how  little  essential 
he  is,  or  how  easily  his  post  is  filled  —  indeed, 
how  many  people  there  are  who  believe  that  they 
could  do  the  same  thing  better  if  they  only  had 
the  chance. 

A  life  to  be  happy  must  be  compounded  in  due 
degree  of  activity  and  pleasure,  using  the  word  in 
its  best  sense.  There  must  be  sufficient  activity 
to  take  off  the  perilous  and  acrid  humours  of  the 
mind  which,  left  to  themselves,  poison  the  sources 
of  life,  and  enough  pleasure  to  make  the  prospect  of 
life  palatable. 

The  first  necessity  is  to  get  rid,  as  life  goes  on, 
of  all  conventional  pleasures.  By  the  age  of  forty 
a  man  should  know  what  he  enjoys,  and  not  con- 
tinue doing  things  intended  to  be  pleasurable,  either 


220  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

because  he  deludes  himself  into  thinking  that  he 
enjoys  them,  or  because  he  likes  others  to  think  that 
he  enjoys  them.  I  know  now  that  I  do  not  care  for 
casual  country-house  visiting,  for  dancing,  for  garden 
parties,  for  cricket  matches,  and  many  another  form 
of  social  distraction,  but  that  the  pleasures  that 
remain  and  grow  are  the  pleasures  derived  from 
books,  from  the  sights  and  sounds  of  nature, 
from  sympathetic  conversation,  from  music,  and 
from  active  physical  exercise  in  the  open  air.  It 
is  my  belief  that  a  man  is  happiest  who  is  so  far 
employed  that  he  has  to  scheme  to  secure  a  certain 
share  of  such  pleasures.  My  own  life  unhappily  is 
so  ordered  that  it  is  the  other  way — that  I  have 
to  scheme  to  secure  sufficient  activities  to  make 
such  pleasure  wholesome.  But  I  am  stern  with  my- 
self. At  times  when  I  find  the  zest  of  simple  home 
pleasures  deserting  me,  I  have  sufficient  self-control 
deliberately  to  spend  a  week  in  London,  which  I 
detest,  or  to  pay  a  duty-visit  where  I  am  so  acutely 
and  sharply  bored  by  a  dull  society — castigatio 
mea  maiutina  est — that  I  return  with  delicious 
enthusiasm  to  my  own  trivial  round. 

I   do  not   flatter  myself  that   I   hold  any  very 
important    place    in    the    world's    economy.       But 


SIMPLICITY  221 

I  believe  that  I  have  humbly  contributed  some- 
what to  the  happiness  of  others,  and  I  find  that 
the  reward  for  thwarted,  wasted  ambitions  has 
come  in  the  shape  of  a  daily  increasing  joy  in 
quiet  things  and  tender  simplicities.  I  need  not 
reiterate  the  fact  that  I  draw  from  Nature,  ever 
more  and  more,  the  most  unfailing  and  the  purest 
joy ;  and  if  I  have  forfeited  some  of  the  deepest 
and  most  thrilling  emotions  of  the  human  heart, 
it  is  but  what  thousands  are  compelled  to  do  ;  and 
it  is  something  to  find  that  the  heart  can  be  sweet 
and  tranquil  without  them.  The  only  worth  of 
these  pages  must  rest  in  the  fact  that  the  life 
which  I  have  tried  to  depict  is  made  up  of  ele- 
ments which  are  within  the  reach  of  all  or  nearly 
all  human  beino^s.  And  thoug-h  I  cannot  claim  to 
have  invented  a  religious  system,  or  to  have  origi- 
nated any  new  or  startling  theory  of  existence,  yet 
I  have  proved  by  experiment  that  a  life  beset  by 
many  disadvantages,  and  deprived  of  most  of  the 
stimulus  that  to  some  would  seem  essential,  need 
not  drift  into  being  discontented  or  evil  or  cold 
or  hard. 


33 

Oct.   22,   1898. 

That  is,  so  to  speak,  the  outside  of  my  life,  the 
front  that  is  turned  to  the  world.  May  I  for  a 
brief  moment  open  the  doors  that  lead  to  the 
secret  rooms  of  the  spirit  ? 

The  greater  part  of  mankind  trouble  them- 
selves little  enough  about  the  eternal  questions : 
what  we  are,  and  what  we  shall  be  hereafter. 
Life  to  the  strong,  energetic,  the  full-blooded,  gives 
innumerable  opportunities  of  forgetting.  It  is  easy 
to  swim  with  the  stream,  to  take  no  thought  of  the 
hills  which  feed  the  quiet  source  of  it,  or  the  sea  to 
which  it  runs ;  for  such  as  these  it  is  enough  to 
live.  But  all  whose  minds  are  restless,  whose  im- 
agination is  constructive,  who  have  to  face  some 
dreary  and  aching  present,  and  would  so  gladly 
take  refuge  in  the  future  and  nestle  in  the  arms 
of  faith,  if  they  could  but  find  her — for  these  the 
obstinate  question  must  come.  Like  the  wind  of 
heaven    it   rises.     We    may  shut    it   out,  trim  the 


IDENTITY  223 

lamp,  pile  the  fire,  and  lose  ourselves  in  pleasant 
and  complacent  activities  ;  but  in  the  intervals  of 
our  work,  when  we  drop  the  book  or  lay  down 
the  pen,  the  gust  rises  shrill  and  sharp  round  the 
eaves,  the  gale  buffets  in  the  chimney,  and  we 
cannot  drown  the  echo  in  our  hearts. 

This  is  the  question  : — 

Is  our  life  a  mere  fortuitous  and  evanescent 
thing  ?  Is  consciousness  a  mere  symptom  of 
matter  under  certain  conditions?  Do  we  begin 
and  end  ?  Are  the  intense  emotions  and  attach- 
ments, the  joys  and  sorrows  of  life,  the  agonies 
of  loss,  the  hungering  love  with  which  we  sur- 
round the  faces,  the  voices,  the  forms  of  those 
we  love,  the  chords  which  vibrate  in  us  at  the 
thought  of  vanished  days,  and  places  we  have 
loved — the  old  house,  the  family  groups  assembled, 
the  light  upon  the  quiet  fields  at  evening,  the  red 
sunset  behind  the  elms — all  those  purest,  sweetest, 
most  poignant  memories  —  are  these  all  unsub- 
stantial phenomena  like  the  rainbow  or  the  dawn, 
subjective,  transitory,  moving  as  the  wayfarer 
moves  ? 

Who  can  tell  us? 

Some  would  cast  themselves  upon  the  Gospel — • 


224  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

but  to  me  it  seems  that  Jesus  spoke  of  these  things 
rarely,  dimly,  in  parables  —  and  that  though  He 
takes  for  granted  the  continuity  of  existence,  He 
deliberately  withheld  the  knowledge  of  the  con- 
ditions under  which  it  continues.  He  spoke,  it 
is  true,  in  the  story  of  Dives  and  Lazarus,  of  a 
future  state,  of  the  bosom  of  Abraham  where  the 
spirit  rested  like  a  tired  child  upon  his  father's 
knee — of  the  great  gulf  that  could  not  be  crossed 
except  by  the  voices  and  gestures  of  the  spirits 
— but  will  any  one  maintain  that  He  was  not  using 
the  forms  of  current  allegory,  and  that  He  intended 
this  parable  as  an  eschatological  solution  ?  Again 
He  spoke  of  the  final  judgment  in  a  pastoral  image. 
Enough,  some  faithful  souls  may  say,  upon 
which  to  rest  the  hope  of  the  preservation  of 
human  identity.  Alas !  I  must  confess  with  a  sigh, 
it  is  not  enough  for  me.  I  see  the  mass  of  His 
teaching  directed  to  life,  and  the  issues  of  the 
moment  ;  I  seem  to  see  Him  turn  his  back  again 
and  again  on  the  future,  and  wave  His  followers 
away.  Is  it  conceivable  that  if  He  could  have 
said,  in  words  unmistakable  and  precise,  "You 
have  before  you,  when  the  weary  body  closes  its 
eyes  on  the  world,  an  existence  in  which  perception 


INDIVIDUALITY  225 

is  as  strong  or  stronger,  identity  as  clearly  de- 
fined, memory  as  real,  thought  as  swift  as  when 
you  lived — and  this  too  unaccompanied  by  any  of 
the  languors  or  failures  or  traitorous  inheritance  of 
the  poor  corporeal  frame," — is  it  conceivable,  I  say, 
that  if  He  could  have  said  this.  He  would  have 
held  His  peace,  and  spoken  only  through  dark 
hints,  dim  allegories,  shadowy  imaginings.  Could 
a  message  of  peace  more  strong,  more  vital,  more 
tremendous  have  been  given  to  the  world  ?  To 
have  satisfied  the  riddles  of  the  sages,  the  dreams 
of  philosophers,  the  hopes  of  the  ardent — to  have 
allayed  the  fears  of  the  timid,  the  heaviness  of  the 
despairing ;  to  have  dried  the  mourner's  tears — 
all  in  a  moment.     And  He  did  not ! 

What  then  can  we  believe  ?  I  can  answer  but 
for  myself 

I  believe  with  my  whole  heart  and  soul  in  the 
indestructibility  of  life  and  spirit.  Even  fuatter  to 
my  mind  seems  indestructible — and  matter  is,  I 
hold,  less  real  than  the  motions  and  activities  of 
the  spirit. 

It  has  sometimes  seemed  to  me  that  matter  may 
afford  us  the  missing  analogy  :  when  the  body  dies, 
it  sinks  softly  and  resistlessly  into  the  earth,  and  is 


226  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

carried  on  the  wings  of  the  wind,  in  the  silent 
speeding  fountains,  to  rise  again  in  ceaseless  inter- 
change of  form. 

Could  it  be  so  with  life  and  spirit  ?  As  the 
fountain  casts  the  jet  high  into  the  air  over  the 
glimmering  basin,  and  the  drops  separate  them- 
selves for  a  prismatic  instant — when  their  separate 
identity  seems  unquestioned — and  then  rejoin  the 
parent  wave,  could  not  life  and  spirit  slip  back  as 
it  were  into  some  vast  reservoir  of  life,  perhaps  to 
linger  there  awhile,  to  lose  by  peaceful  self-sur- 
render, happy  intermingling,  by  cool  and  tranquil 
fusion  the  dust,  the  stain,  the  ghastly  taint  of  suffer- 
ing and  sin  ?     I  know  not,  but  I  think  it  may  be  so. 

But  if  I  could  affirm  the  other — that  the  spirit 
passes  onwards  through  realms  undreamed  of,  in 
gentle  unstained  communion,  not  only  with  those 
whom  one  has  loved,  but  with  all  whom  one  ever 
would  have  loved,  lost  in  sweet  wonder  at  the 
infinite  tenderness  and  graciousness  of  God, — 
would  it  not  in  one  single  instant  give  me  the 
peace  I  cannot  find,  and  make  life  into  a  radiant 
antechamber  leading  to  a  vision  of  rapturous 
delight  ? 


34 

Sep.  1 8,  1900. 

How  can  I  write  what  has  befallen  me?  the  double 
disaster  that  has  cut  like  a  knife  into  my  life.  Was 
one,  I  ask  myself,  the  result  of  the  other,  sent  to 
me  to  show  that  I  ou^^ht  to  have  been  content 
with  what  I  had,  that  I  ought  not  to  have  stretched 
out  my  hand  to  the  fruit  that  hung  too  high  above 
me.  I  am  too  feeble  in  mind  and  body  to  do  more 
than  briefly  record  the  incidents  that  have  struck 
me  down.  I  feel  like  a  shipwrecked  sailor  who, 
flung  on  an  inhospitable  shore,  had  with  infinite 
labour  and  desperate  toil  dragged  a  few  necessaries 
out  of  the  floating  fragments  of  the  wreck,  and 
piled  them  carefully  and  patiently  on  a  ledge  out 
of  the  reach  of  the  tide,  only  to  find  after  a  night 
of  sudden  storm  the  little  store  scattered  and  himself 
swimming  faintly  in  a  raging  sea — that  sea  which 
the  evening  before  had  sunk  into  so  sweet,  so 
caressing  a  repose,  and  now  like  a  grey  monster 
aroused    to    sudden    fury,    howls    and    beats    for 


228  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

leagues   against   the   stony   promontories   and   the 
barren  beaches. 

I  had  been  in  very  tranquil  spirits  and  strong 
health  all  the  summer ;  my  maladies  had  ceased 
to  trouble  me,  and  for  weeks  they  were  out  of  my 
thoughts.  I  had  found  a  quiet  zest  in  the  little 
duties  that  make  up  my  simple  life.  I  had  made, 
too,  a  new  friend.  A  pleasant  cottage  about  half  a 
mile  from  Golden  End  had  been  taken  by  the  widow 
of  a  clergyman  with  small  but  sufficient  means,  who 
settled  there  with  her  daughter,  the  latter  being  about 
twenty-four.  I  went  somewhat  reluctantly  with  my 
mother  to  call  upon  them  and  offer  neighbourly 
assistance.  I  found  myself  at  once  in  the  presence 
of  two  refined,  cultivated,  congenial  people.  Mrs. 
Waring,  I  saw,  was  not  only  a  well-read  woman,  in- 
terested in  books  and  art,  but  she  had  seen  something 
of  society,  and  had  a  shrewd  and  humorous  view  of 
men  and  things.  Miss  Waring  was  like  her  mother  ; 
but  I  soon  found  that  to  her  mother's  kindly  and 
brisk  intellect  she  added  a  peculiar  and  noble 
insight — that  critical  power,  if  I  may  call  it  so, 
which  sees  what  is  beautiful  and  true  in  life,  and 
strips  it  of  adventitious  and  superficial  disguises 
in  the  same  way  that  one  with  a  high  appreciation 


NEW    FRIENDS  229 

of  literature  moves  instinctively  to  what  is  gracious 
and  lofty,  and  is  never  misled  by  talent  or  un- 
observant of  genius.  The  society  of  these  two 
became  to  me  in  a  few  weeks  a  real  and  precious 
possession,  I  began  to  see  how  limited  and  self- 
centred  my  life  had  begun  to  be.  They  did  not, 
so  to  speak,  provide  me  with  new  sensations  and 
new  material  so  much  as  put  the  whole  of  life  in 
a  new  light.  I  found  in  the  mother  a  wise  and 
practical  counsellor,  with  a  singular  grasp  of 
detail,  with  whom  I  could  discuss  any  new  book 
I  had  read  or  any  article  that  had  struck  me ; 
but  with  Miss  Waring  it  was  different.  I  can 
only  say  that  her  wise  and  simple  heart  cast  a 
new  light  upon  the  most  familiar  thoughts.  I 
found  myself  understood,  helped,  lifted,  in  a  way 
that  both  humiliated  and  inspired  me.  Moreover, 
I  was  privileged  to  be  admitted  into  near  relations 
with  one  who  seemed  to  show,  without  the  least 
consciousness  of  it,  the  best  and  highest  possibilities 
that  lie  in  human  nature.  I  cannot  guess  or  define 
the  secret.  I  only  know  that  it  dawned  upon  me 
gradually  that  here  was  a  human  spirit  fed  like  a 
spring  from  the  purest  rains  that  fall  on  some  purple 
mountain-head. 


230  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

By  what  soft  and  unsuspected  degrees  my  feel- 
ing of  congenial  friendship  grew  into  a  deeper 
devotion  I  cannot  now  trace.  It  must  now  in  my 
miserable  loneliness  be  enough  to  say  that  so  it 
was.  Only  a  few  days  ago — and  yet  the  day 
seems  already  to  belong  to  a  remote  past,  and  to 
be  separated  from  these  last  dark  hours  by  a  great 
gulf,  misty,  not  to  be  passed,  —  I  realised  that 
a  new  power  had  come  into  my  life — the  heavenly 
power  that  makes  all  things  new.  I  had  gone 
down  to  the  cottage  in  a  hot,  breathless  sunlit 
afternoon.  I  had  long  passed  the  formality  of 
ringing  to  announce  my  entrance.  There  was  no 
one  in  the  little  drawing-room,  which  was  cool 
and  dark,  with  shuttered  windows.  I  went  out 
upon  the  lawn.  Miss  Waring  was  sitting  in  a 
chair  under  a  beech  tree  reading,  and  at  the  sight 
of  me  she  rose,  laid  down  her  book,  and  came 
smiling  across  the  grass.  There  is  a  subtle,  view- 
less message  of  the  spirit  which  flashes  between 
kindred  souls,  in  front  of  and  beyond  the  power 
of  look  or  speech,  and  at  the  same  moment  that 
I  understood  I  felt  she  understood  too.  I  could 
not  then  at  once  put  into  words  my  hopes ;  but 
it  hardly  seemed  necessary.     We  sat  together,  we 


THE    MOMENT  231 

spoke  a  little,  but  were  mostly  silent  in  some  secret 
interchange  of  spirit.  That  afternoon  my  heart 
climbed,  as  it  were,  a  great  height,  and  saw  from 
a  Pisgah  top  the  familiar  land  at  its  feet,  all  lit 
with  a  holy  radiance,  and  then  turning,  saw,  in 
golden  gleams  and  purple  haze,  the  margins  of  an 
unknown  sea  stretching  out  beyond  the  sunset  to 
the  very  limits  of  the  world. 


35 

Sep.  19,  1900. 
That  night,  in  a  kind  of  rapturous  peace,  I  faced 
the  new  hope.  Even  then,  in  that  august  hour, 
I  reflected  whether  I  could,  with  my  broken  life 
and  faded  dreams,  link  a  spirit  so  fair  to  mine. 
I  can  truthfully  say  that  I  was  full  to  the  brim  of 
the  intensest  gratitude,  the  tenderest  service ;  but 
I  thought  was  it  just,  was  it  right,  with  little  or  no- 
thing to  offer,  to  seek  to  make  so  large  a  claim  upon 
so  beautiful  a  soul  ?  I  did  not  doubt  that  I  could 
win  it,  and  that  love  would  be  lavished  in  fullest 
measure  on  me.  But  I  strove  with  all  my  might 
to  see  whether  such  a  hope  was  not  on  my  part 
a  piece  of  supreme  and  shameful  selfishness.  I 
probed  the  very  depths  of  my  being,  and  decided 
that  I  might  dare  ;  that  God  had  given  me  this 
precious,  this  adorable  gift,  and  that  I  might  con- 
secrate my  life  and  heart  to  love  and  be  worthy  of 
it  if  I  could. 

So  I  sank  to  sleep,  and  woke  to  the  shock  of  a 


THE    STROKE    OF    GOD  233 

rapture  such  as  I  did  not  believe  this  world  could 
hold.  It  was  a  still  warm  day  of  late  summer,  but  a 
diviner  radiance  lay  over  garden,  field,  and  wood 
for  me.  I  determined  I  would  not  speak  to  my 
mother  till  after  I  had  received  my  answer. 

After  breakfast  I  went  out  to  the  garden — the 
flowers  seemed  to  smile  and  nod  their  heads  at  me, 
leaning  with  a  kind  of  tender  brilliance  to  greet 
me ;  in  a  thick  bush  I  heard  the  flute-notes  of  my 
favourite  thrush — the  brisk  chirruping  of  the  spar- 
rows came  from  the  ivied  gable. 

What  was  it  ?  .  .  .  what  was  the  strange,  rend- 
ing, numbing  shock  that  ran  so  suddenly  through 
me,  making  me  in  a  moment  doubtful,  as  it  seemed, 
even  of  my  own  identity — again  it  came — again.  I 
raised  my  eyes,  it  seemed  as  if  I  had  never  seen  the 
garden,  the  house,  the  trees  before.  Then  came  a 
pang  of  such  grim  horror  that  I  felt  as  though 
stabbed  with  a  sword.  I  seemed,  if  that  is  possible, 
almost  to  smell  and  taste  pain.  I  staggered  a  few 
steps  back  to  the  garden  entrance — I  remember  cry- 
ing out  faintly,  and  my  voice  seemed  strange  to  me — 
there  was  a  face  at  the  door — and  then  a  blackness 
closed  round  me  and  I  knew  no  more. 


36 

Sep.  20,  1900. 
I  WOKE  at  last,  swimming  upwards,  like  a  diver  out 
of  a  deep  sea,  from  some  dark  abyss  of  weakness. 
I  opened  my  eyes — I  saw  that  I  was  in  a  downstairs 
room,  where  it  seemed  that  a  bed  must  have  been 
improvised ;  but  at  first  I  was  too  weak  even  to 
inquire  with  myself  what  had  happened.  My 
mother  sate  by  me,  with  a  look  on  her  face  that  I 
had  never  seen  ;  but  I  could  not  care.  I  seemed  to 
have  passed  a  ford,  and  to  see  life  from  the  other 
side ;  to  have  shut  a  door  upon  it,  and  to  be  look- 
ing at  it  from  some  dark  window.  I  neither  cared 
nor  hoped  nor  felt.  I  only  wished  to  lie  undisturbed 
— not  to  be  spoken  to  or  noticed,  only  to  lie. 

I  revived  a  little,  and  the  faint  flow  of  life  brought 
back  with  it,  as  upon  a  creeping  tide,  a  regret  that  I 
had  opened  my  eyes  upon  the  world  again — that  was 
my  first  thought.  I  had  been  so  near  the  dark 
passage — the  one  terrible  thing  that  lies  in  front  of 
all  living  things — why  had  I  not  been  permitted  to 

«34 


MURMURINGS  235 

cross  it  once  and  for  all ;  why  was  I  recalled  to  hope, 
to  suffering,  to  fear  ?  Then,  as  I  grew  stronger, 
came  a  fuller  regret  for  the  good,  peaceful  days.  I 
had  asked,  I  thought,  so  little  of  life,  and  that  little 
had  been  denied.  Then  as  I  grew  stronger  still, 
there  came  the  thought  of  the  great  treasure  that 
had  been  within  my  grasp,  and  my  spirit  faintly 
cried  out  against  the  fierce  injustice  of  the  doom. 
But  I  soon  fell  into  a  kind  of  dimness  of  thought, 
from  which  even  now  I  can  hardly  extricate  myself 
— a  numbness  of  heart,  an  indifference  to  all  but  the 
fact  that  from  moment  to  moment  I  am  free  from 
pain. 


37 

Sep.  a  I,  1900. 

I  AM  climbing,  climbing,  hour  by  hour,  slowly  and 

cautiously,  out  of  the  darkness,  as  a  man  climbs  up 

some  dizzy  crag,  never  turning  his  head — yet  not 

back  to  life !     I  shall  not  achieve  that. 

How  strange  it  would  seem  to  others  that  I  can 

care  to  write  thus — it  seems  strange  even  to  myself. 

If  ever,  in  life,  I  looked  on  to  these  twilight  hours, 

with  the  end  coming  slowly  nearer,    I   thought   I 

should  lie  in  a  kind  of  stupor  of  mind  and  body, 

indifferent  to  everything.     I   am    indifferent,   with 

the  indifference  of  one  in  whom   desire  seems  to 

be  dead ;  but  my  mind  is,  or  seems,  almost  preter- 

naturally    clear ;    and    the   old    habit,   of  trying   to 

analyse,  to  describe,  anything  that  I  see  or  realise 

distinctly  is  too  strong  for  me.      I  have  asked  for 

pencil  and  paper ;  they  demur,  but  yield  ;  and  so  I 

write  a  little,  which  relieves  the  occasional  physical 

restlessness  I  feel ;  it  induces  a  power  of  tranquil 

reverie,  and   the  hours  pa.ss,   I   hardly  know    how. 

•36 


A    MOTHER'S    HEART  237 

The  light  changes  ;  the  morning  freshness  becomes 
the  grave  and  solid  afternoon,  and  so  dies  into 
twilight ;  till  out  of  the  dark  alleys  steals  the  gentle 
evening,  dark-eyed  and  with  the  evening  star  tangled 
in  her  hair,  full  of  shy  sweet  virginal  thoughts  and 
mysteries  .  .  .  and   then   the    night,   and    the    day 


agam. 


Do  I  grieve,  do  I  repine,  do  I  fear?  No,  I 
can  truthfully  say,  I  do  not.  I  hardly  seem  to 
feel.  Almost  the  only  feeling  left  me  is  the  old 
childlike  trustfulness  in  mother  and  nurse.  I  do 
not  seem  to  need  to  tell  them  anything.  One  or 
other  sits  near  me.  I  feel  my  mother's  eyes  dwell 
upon  me,  till  I  look  up  and  smile ;  but  between 
our  very  minds  there  runs,  as  it  were,  an  airy 
bridge,  on  which  the  swift  thoughts,  the  messengers 
of  love,  speed  to  and  fro.  I  seem,  in  the  loss  of  all 
the  superstructure  and  fabric  of  life,  to  have  nothing 
left  to  tie  me  to  the  world,  but  this  sense  of  unity 
with  my  mother — that  inseparable,  elemental  tie 
that  nothing  can  break.  And  she,  I  know,  feels 
this  too ;  and  it  gives  her,  though  she  could  not 
describe  it,  a  strange  elation  in  the  midst  of  her 
sorrow,  the  joy  that  a  man  is  born  into  the  world, 
and  that  I  am  hers. 


238  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

With  the  beloved  nurse  it  is  the  same  in  a 
sense ;  but  here  it  is  not  the  deep  inextricable  bond 
of  blood,  but  the  bond  of  perfect  love.  I  lose  myself 
in  wonder  in  thinking  of  it ;  that  one  who  is  hired 
— that  is  the  strange  basis  of  the  relationship — for 
a  simple  task,  should  become  absolutely  identified 
with  love,  with  those  whom  she  serves.  I  do  not 
believe  that  Susan  has  a  single  thought  or  desire 
in  the  world  that  is  not  centred  on  my  mother  or 
myself.  The  tie  between  us  is  simply  indissoluble. 
And  I  feel  that  if  we  wandered,  we  three  spirits, 
disconsolate  and  separate,  through  the  trackless 
solitudes  of  heaven,  she  would  somehow  find  her 
way  to  my  side. 

I  have  noticed  that  since  my  illness  began  she 
has  slipped  into  the  use  of  little  nursery  phrases 
which  I  have  not  heard  for  years  ;  I  have  become 
•'  Master  Henry "  again,  and  am  told  to  "  look 
slippy"  about  taking  my  medicine.  This  would 
have  moved  me  in  other  days  with  a  sense  of 
pathos ;  it  is  not  so  now,  though  the  knowledge 
that  these  two  beloved,  sweet-minded,  loving  women 
suffer,  is  the  one  shadow  over  my  tranquillity.  If  I 
could  only  explain  to  them  that  my  sadness  for  their 
sorrow  is  drowned  in  my  wonder  at  the  strangeness 
that  any  one  should  ever  sorr^^Mj^t  all  for  anything ! 


38 

Sep.  22,  1900. 
To-day  I  am  calmer,  and  the  hours  have  been 
passing  in  a  long  reverie  ;  I  have  been  thinking 
quietly  over  the  past  years.  Sometimes,  as  I  lay 
with  eyes  closed,  the  old  life  came  so  near  me 
that  it  almost  seemed  as  if  men  and  women  and 
children,  some  of  them  dead  and  gone,  had  sate  by 
me  and  spoken  to  me  ;  little  scenes  and  groups  out 
of  early  years  that  I  thought  I  had  forgotten  sud- 
denly shaped  themselves.  It  is  as  if  my  will  had 
abdicated  its  sway,  and  the  mind,  like  one  who  is  to 
remove  from  a  house  in  which  he  had  long  dwelt, 
is  turning  over  old  stores,  finding  old  relics  long 
laid  aside  in  cupboards  and  lumber-rooms,  and  see- 
ing them  without  sorrow,  only  lingering  with  a  kind 
of  tender  remoteness  over  the  sweet  and  fragrant 
associations  of  the  days  that  are  dead. 

I  have  never  doubted  that  I  am  to  die,  and 
to-day  it  seems  as  though  I  cared  little  when  the 
parting  comes  ;  death  does  not  seem  to  me  now  like 


339 


240  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

a  sharp  close  to  life,  the  yawning  of  a  dark  pit ;  but, 
as  in  an  allegory,  I  seem  to  see  a  little  dim  figure, 
leaving  a  valley  full  of  sunlight  and  life,  and  going 
upwards  into  misty  and  shapeless  hills.  I  used  to 
wonder  whether  death  was  an  end,  an  extinction — 
noiv  that  seems  impossible  —  my  life  and  thought 
seem  so  strong,  so  independent  of  the  frail  physical 
accompaniments  of  the  body ;  but  even  if  it  is  an 
end,  the  thought  does  not  afflict  me.  I  am  in  the 
Father's  hands.     It  is  He  that  hath  made  us. 


39 

Sep.  24,  1900. 
I  HAVE  had  an  interview  with  her.  I  hardly 
know  what  we  said — very  little — she  understood, 
and  it  was  very  peaceful  in  her  presence.  I  tried  to 
tell  her  not  to  be  sorry  ;  for  indeed  the  one  thing  that 
seems  to  me  inconceivable  is  that  any  one  should 
grieve.  I  lie  like  a  boat  upon  a  quiet  tide,  drifting 
out  to  sea — the  sea  to  which  we  must  all  drift.  I 
am  thankful  for  my  life  and  all  its  sweetness  :  the 
shadows  have  gone,  and  it  seems  to  me  now  as 
though  all  the  happiness  came  from  God,  and  all 
the  shadow  was  of  my  own  making.  And  the 
strangest  thought  of  all  is  that  the  darkest  shadow 
has  always  been  this  very  passing,  which  now  seems 
to  me  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world — indeed 
the  only  true  thing. 

None  the  less  am  I  thankful  for  this  sfrcat 
and  crowning  gift  of  love — the  one  thing  that  I 
had  missed.  I  do  not  now  even  want  to  use  it,  to 
enjoy  it — it  is  there,  and  that  is  enough.     In  her 

a4i  Q 


242  THE    HOUSE    OF    QUIET 

presence  it  seemed  to  me  that  Love  stood  side  by 
side  with  Death,  two  shining  sisters.  But  yes- 
terday I  murmured  over  having  been  given,  as  it 
were,  so  sweet  a  cup  to  taste,  and  then  having  the 
cup  dashed  from  my  lips.  To-day  I  see  that  Love 
was  the  crown  of  my  poor  life,  and  I  thank  God 
with  all  the  strength  of  my  spirit  for  putting  it 
into  my  hand  as  His  last  and  best  gift. 

And  I  thanked  her  too  for  deigning  to  love 
me ;  and  even  while  I  did  so,  the  thought  broke 
to  pieces,  as  it  were,  and  escaped  from  the  feeble 
words  in  which  I  veiled  it,  like  a  moth  bursting 
from  a  cocoon.  For  were  we  not  each  other's 
before  the  world  was  made?  And  the  thought 
of  myself  and  herself  fled  from  me,  and  we  were 
one  spirit,  thinking  the  same  thoughts,  sustained 
by  the  same  strength.  One  more  word  I  said,  and 
bade  her  believe  that  I  said  it  with  undimmed  and 
unblunted  mind,  that  she  must  live,  and  cast  abroad 
by  handfuls  the  love  she  would  have  garnered  for 
me  ;  that  the  sorrow  that  lay  heavy  on  her  heart 
must  be  fruitful,  not  a  devastating  sorrow  ;  and  that 
however  much  alone  she  might  seem,  that  I  should 
be  there,  like  one  who  kneels  without  a  closed 
door  .  .  .  and  so  we  said  farewell. 


NEARLY    HOME  243 

I  He  now  in  my  own  room — it  is  evening  ;  through 
the  open  window  I  can  see  the  dark-stemmed  trees, 
the  pigeon-cotes,  the  shadowy  shoulder  of  the  barn, 
the  soft  ridges  beyond,  the  Httle  wood-end  that  I 
saw  once  in  the  early  dawn  and  thought  so  beauti- 
ful. When  I  saw  it  before  it  seemed  to  me  like  the 
gate  of  the  unknown  country  ;  will  my  hovering 
spirit  pass  that  way?  I  have  lived  my  little  life — 
and  my  heart  goes  out  to  all  of  every  trihe  and 
nation  under  the  sun  who  are  still  in  the  body.  I 
would  tell  them  with  my  last  breath  that  there  is 
comfort  to  the  end — that  there  is  nothino-  worth 
fretting  over  or  being  heavy-hearted  about ;  that 
the  Father's  arm  is  strong,  and  that  His  heart  is 
very  wide. 


THE    END 


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